


Edges

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Incest, M/M, Pre-Series, Scent Kink, Sharing Clothes, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:12:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things that Sam's already received from his brother include: a flyer from a strip club, a temporary tattoo of a bulldog, and a mysterious yet clean sock. He imagines Dean shoving things into an empty cereal box from the back seat of the car, slapping on a few stamps, and sending it off on a post-hunt high, thinking, I'm alive, I should probably let Sam know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shinyslasher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyslasher/gifts).



Skipping class  
Skipping work  
Skipping out on the bill  
Skipping breakfast  
Skipping town. — The Lifeplan  
  
  
Things that Sam's already received from his brother include: a flyer from a strip club, a temporary tattoo of a bulldog, and a mysterious yet clean sock. He imagines Dean shoving things into an empty cereal box from the back seat of the car, slapping on a few stamps, and sending it off on a post-hunt high, thinking, _I'm alive, I should probably let Sam know_.  
  
Sam knows he really shouldn't look for answers where there aren't any, and he doesn't want Dean's cast-off socks. He'd send them back if there was any return address, but instead he's allocated a drawer in his room where the things pile up. He's also found postcards from places like Nashville, Springfield, and Never Heard of It sandwiched into the piles of glossy junk mail that come to his second storey apartment in Palo Alto. These, he tapes to the wall above his desk after the stack has built to five, twelve, and his eyes sometimes stray to them when he should be studying.  
  
It's just after lunch, the day after Thanksgiving break, when the latest package arrives. Like all the rest, there's probably no deeper meaning to the contents. Even so, Sam's stomach jumps when he finds the manila envelope wedged in his tiny mailbox.  
  
"Hey," Brady says, passing by to get real cereal that's not off-brand, not possibly stolen from some gas station in the midwest. He's wearing Sam's boxers, which has never happened before and which hits Sam weird in the gut, maybe because it always used to be Sam wearing Dean's. He's also wearing Sam's hickey on his neck, but that's another thing entirely.  
  
"Hey," Sam says, and goes back to examining the envelope. He judges the handwriting against what he knows from grocery lists and dirty lyrics. For a second he can clearly imagine Dean licking the pen tip and scribbling to try to make it work.  
  
"You gonna open it?" Brady asks. He's digging around in the fridge, shirt riding up when Sam looks over.  
  
"No, I'm just going to carry it around like this, without opening it." Sam comes to take a seat at the crappy table. "Hey, don't you have class?"  
  
Brady shrugs as he closes the fridge door. "Dropped it."  
  
Sam stops working at the envelope, short fingernail only just peeling up the edge. Brady's never dropped a thing in his life as far as Sam's aware, pulls straight A's and takes his coursework seriously.  
  
But by the expression on his face, he doesn't seem too troubled. Actually, he seems very….something. Content, maybe...when Sam takes a second to really look at him.  
  
"It really is good to see you," Brady says, and reaches out a hand. "C'mere."  
  
Sam hesitates before complying. And when he does get up, and when Brady loops an arm around his waist, Sam shivers. His feeling that something's wrong only grows. They're just guys who fuck around sometimes, friends blowing off some steam. Casual intimacy has never been part of the equation, never this.  
  
"Thanksgiving with the fam was great, but I'm glad to be back," Brady says, pressing his face to Sam's hair. "The rest of this year's gonna be great, I can feel it."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Brady is blond with straight teeth. He's one of two point five kids from a well-manicured home in Petaluma, with a mother who brews beer and a dad who writes guest sermons for the church two blocks over, studying Latin just like Sam's dad, although only one of them is really using it. They have one family dog. He drinks occasionally and manages to balance his extracurriculars with his curriculars in a way that should look good when he applies to med school, and while Brady had Captain Planet on his bed sheets as a kid, Sam grew up sleeping on the same, sweaty mattress in three hundred motel rooms across the country, where itchy sheets soothed bad dreams.  
  
And yet despite how polar opposite they are on paper, Sam and Brady get along pretty great. Sam met him rush week at a frat party where Brady told him the only Greek he'd be pledging was the library, and they started hooking up somewhere along the way. Hanging out with Brady gives him some feeling of normalcy, a welcome predictability where he's never had any before, with the added benefit of the occasional blowjob. It was only weird that first time. Brushing his teeth and looking at his reflection in the mirror, Sam had thought, _Dad will never have to know_.  
  
Which is why the way Brady's started acting that week, dropping classes and wearing Sam's clothing, is off-putting. He's kind of been around Sam's apartment a lot, in Sam's stuff, and it's starting to pose a problem.  
  
Because Sam has things that are secret. A gun, for example — not registered in the state of California or any other state for that matter. A protective charm made of string and etched stone. One of Dean's old t-shirts he takes out from time to time. A picture.  
  
Brady finds the last on an unremarkable Tuesday, where it's wedged into a ratty old Bible of Sam's that's seen more blood than blessing.  
  
"Whoa," he calls. "You know you have a picture of a dude in here?"  
  
It's the same tone of voice as when he'd gone into Sam's drawer for a hat and come out with a certain pair of satin panties. Sam tamps down on panic, coming out of the bathroom with his toothbrush still in his mouth.  
  
"Yeah," he says, experiencing a strange calm as he watches Brady examining the picture.  
  
In it, Dean's face is turned to the camera, taking up the whole frame, that time Sam had said, _come on, look normal or something_ , and Dean made that stupid expression just before the flash went off, mouth open in manic, fake happiness, eyes wide. The photo is perfectly captured sarcasm, and Sam's fingers itch to grab it back.  
  
Brady raises his eyebrows at it. "Friend?"  
  
Sam snorts, and manages around the toothbrush, "Something like that."  
  
"Huh."  
  
"Here." Sam reaches for the picture. When Brady hands it over, Sam puts it back inside the Bible, which he holds under one arm as he goes back to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth.  
  
He doesn't want to discuss what Dean is or isn't, not with Brady or anyone else. It's been over a year since he and Dean have seen each other, with no plan to change that anytime soon, but even so, Sam can feel a red string connecting them, tugging.  
  
Thankfully, Brady doesn't ask about the picture, instead wandering away to keep doing work. And when they get back from the library that night, Brady gets Sam spread out under him on the living room couch, and Sam forgets the old Brady a bit more in favor of this new one, accepting this reckless edge. It's an awkward angle but they make it work.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He has a nightmare that night involving some general idea of tumbling blonde hair and impending doom, and he wakes up glad he's still fourteen, back-to-back in bed with Dean.  
  
Then, he wakes up fully to find he's actually alone, in California and going to college, where his friends all have Mac laptops and refer to him by his last name. The life of ghouls and dark, nocturnal things is not on hold, he reminds himself as he catches his breath, his eyes wide open in the dark, that life is genuinely over.  
  
It's four weeks before Christmas and the streets are wet outside, the sky pinking. Sam doesn't go back to sleep after his nightmare that feels more like a portent. Instead, he takes a five-thirty run followed by a six-thirty shower, so that by mid-morning he's already been up five hours when Brady introduces him to Jess.  
  
"Did you hear about the guy they found last week—" he hears a girl's voice say from the living room. "Killed himself."  
  
"Yeah, tragic," Brady says back.  
  
"He was a Junior—"  
  
Sam comes out of his room, down the hall. He sees the girl is tall like an Amazon, with blonde hair that shines gold in the light filtering through the open door. Meanwhile, Brady looks somehow malevolent, standing in the shadowed coolness of the room. Sam is inexplicably reminded of religious iconography, Brady the demon to this girl's angel. He shakes his head. Weird morning.  
  
Brady looks up when Sam comes in. "Jessica," he says brightly, waving Sam over. "This is Sam Winchester. Sam, Jessica Moore."  
  
"Hi," Sam says, as Jess waves at Sam with just her fingers. He wants to know where Brady got a key or whether he broke in, but now's not the time to ask.  
  
"Brady tells me we have the same criminal law class," Jess says.  
  
"Hey, no way," Sam says.  
  
There are footsteps on the stairs, and the mailman drops a stack of coupon books and a manila envelope with a nod before he steps off.  
  
Sam wasn't expecting another package so soon. He takes the envelope, letting the junk mail fall to the mat, feeling an embarrassing jolt of anticipation when he sees the all-caps scrawl, the pen nearly run out by the end of the address, that makes it obvious who it's from. He wants to smell the paper, lick the place it's been licked closed, imagining the envelope might retain traces of Dean's mouth and fingertips.  
  
He opens it there, spine to door frame, with the sound of cars moving quietly by on the street that's one floor down and sunny. He reaches in and pulls out a pamphlet advertising the "Museum of Oddities," and he skims it. The museum is apparently world-renowned and tucked away in a tacky old corner of Las Vegas.  
  
He unfolds the pamphlet and sees there's no note but that Dean's circled a few so-called facts throughout, scribbling _yeah right_ next to one about ghosts that says you close your eyes and count backward from a hundred and they'll be gone.  
  
It pings Sam like sonar. Dean and Dad are in Nevada. Which means they're close, separated from him by just eight hours of farmland and desert, the San Joaquin Valley. He doesn't know what he feels, realizing that, but it's something like nausea.  
  
"Who's it from?"  
  
He doesn't jump, but it's a near thing. He turns to find Jess and Brady are looking at him expectantly. He'd forgotten they were there.  
  
Jess comes to stand next to him. "You do a lot of snail mail?" she asks, interested.  
  
"No. I mean, I don't ever write it," Sam fumbles,and reminds himself that people don't have secrets like this here.  
  
He notices a small thing at the bottom, then, a hard object, and shakes it out into his palm.  
  
It's just a pin, reading the word 'ODD.' He ignores the dip of disappointment, like part of him maybe expected Dean to try harder, to climb inside the envelope and mail himself instead. He imagines Dean saying, _this is for you, nerd boy_ , and at first he considers tossing it, but then he gets over himself and pins it to his hoodie.  
  
Brady taps it, right over Sam's heart. "What does this mean?"  
  
"No clue," Sam says.  
  
And after Brady and Jess leave, Sam walks into the kitchen and makes himself a sandwich. He eats it slowly, doing his homework. He finishes the reading for one class, then writes three pages of an essay for another. He stretches. Drinks enough water. Doesn't think about the life he used to have, and the person he used to be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
He has Criminal Law the next day. It's one of his favorite classes so far, and it's made him realize he might be interested in legal work. He can imagine calling Dean up, after he graduates maybe, maybe on the way to law school, to tell him that he hasn't completely let the family down. He can still bring the bad guys to justice by working inside the system — just human monsters instead of real ones.  
  
"You stalking me or something?" Jess asks when he takes a seat in the first row. He looks over, and sees that she has her things nicely arranged in front of her, one seat between them.  
  
"Hey, you're the one who showed up in my apartment," Sam points out, pulling out a pen and a notebook he'd gotten at the ninety-nine cents store. "You always sit here?"  
  
"Yep. I get here twenty minutes early just to make sure I get the good seats." She nods to the otherwise empty row. "You know, just in case there's any competition."  
  
"Right, right."  
  
Sam glances with some trepidation at the pink notebook she has flipped open, the page half-filled with cramped, but legible writing.  
  
"You scared of me, or something?" Jess says, and thunks an alarmingly thumbed through textbook on the small desk. There are at least fifty multi-colored post-its sticking out of the side.  
  
"That depends," he says. "You already finished the whole book, didn't you?"  
  
She smiles with a kind of nefarious glee, and nods. "All of the books."  
  
"Well, then," he nods. "There's only one answer to that. Yes. I am terrified."  
  
"Nothing wrong with being the best," she says, sitting back faux casually.  
  
Sam grabs her phone as it falls off the desk. "Uh," he says, handing it back. "Here you g—"  
  
"Dude," she says, taking it back, her eyes wide. "Thank you. How did you even do that?"  
  
"Good reflexes?" Sam offers. He's interrupted when the professor turns on his mic.  
  
Although he loves the class, he isn't sure how he feels about Professor Chase. The man seems nice enough and is way smart, but his knowledge of criminal behavior seems to go beyond the purely academic.  
  
"Hello, class," the professor says, rustling his papers and speaking to the auditorium. "An important announcement before we begin. As I'm sure many of you are aware, an upperclassman passed away just before break."  
  
A murmur passes through the room, and Professor Chase waits for the students fall silent.  
  
"This is a horrible tragedy, a terrible blow to our Stanford community. Grief counselors will be on call for anyone who needs to talk and a candlelight vigil will be held there tomorrow night to pay your respects."  
  
He begins his lecture after that, but the mention of death leaves a feeling of cold in its wake, the very mention of a spirit.  
  
Sam is obviously no stranger to death. He saw his first dead body before he could go on the big kid rides at Six Flags, and has witnessed the aftermath of enough gruesome events to have become numb to it. So a morbid part of him is glad when he feels a pang of sadness and regret at the news.  
  
Next to him, Jess is staring blankly at her books, even as the professor discusses prisoners' rights. Sam remembers suddenly how she'd been talking to Brady about a death while at his apartment. He wonders what the circumstances of the death were, but then makes a conscious effort to stop himself from following that thought process. Because the chance that the death is in any way supernatural is slim, and just because he could look into the death, it doesn't mean he _should_.  
  
The tone of the lecture hall that day is quiet, subdued, and after class the students file out quickly. Jess is walking just up ahead, ringlets bouncing down her back. Sam isn't going to ask what she knows.  
  
But then she turns on her own, adjusting her bag, and catches sight of him. "Oh, hey, Sam."  
  
"Hey." He jogs to reach her, and knows he has to ask. "You doing ok? I mean, after that announcement you seemed pretty upset."  
  
Her eyebrows draw together in confusion, just under the cute mole in the center of her forehead.  
  
"About the guy who...you know—" Sam cuts off, hamming it up somewhat, playing a normal, concerned guy. He feels like a dick. "—died."  
  
She sighs. "Oh. Right. Charlie." Her mouth turns down at the corners. "It's really creepy, what happened. I guess his body was found in the athletics shed."  
  
"Murdered?"  
  
She gives him a sharp look. "No. Killed himself. He was a really happy guy. A friend of mine knew him pretty well. He says it was just so out of the blue."  
  
Sam nods. Suicide. So there's no case here, nothing supernatural about it, he tells himself. Never mind the fact that plenty of supernatural deaths are framed as suicides.  
  
The change in Jess's demeanor is stark. "Hey," he says without really thinking. "You want to grab a drink tonight?"  
  
When she smiles, it's amused. "A drink?" she says.  
  
"You know, with friends. I'll see what Brady's up to."  
  
"No, I mean I'm not twenty-one yet."  
  
Sam shrugs. "Yeah, neither am I. I have a fake ID."  
  
"Ok, what the hell. I'll borrow someone's." She looks cheered, somewhat, and Sam realizes belatedly that it was what he was going for. Jess smiles at him again. "Thanks, Sam."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Sam is fresh from the shower that afternoon, drying his hair with a towel, when he walks into his room to find he's not alone. His first instinct is to grab the nearest — binder — and hurl it at the intruder, but he resists manfully. A moment later he realizes it's just Brady.  
  
"I didn't even hear the door click open," he says, toweling off his chest with his heart rate high. He watches Brady's hand push what he thinks might be one of Dean's postcards back under a notebook. He frowns.  
  
Brady comes over to give Sam a long kiss before leaning against the dresser. He's wearing a smile that's curled like a cartoon bad guy's. "I was just grabbing a pen," he says. "How's your day going?"  
  
"Uh," Sam says, and blinks the water out of his eyelashes to see he was wrong, that Brady's smile looks normal now. He's fucked in the head, he sees vestiges of evil everywhere. Force of habit. "My day's been ok," he says. "I told Jess I'd meet her and some of her friends for drinks. You in?"  
  
The room's weirdly quiet as Sam waits for an answer. His skin prickles for reasons he can't say.  
  
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Brady says. "Let me take you out to dinner first. You like Chinese, don't you Sammy?"  
  
"Sure." He pulls a t-shirt over his head, then a flannel shirt. "Could you not call me that?"  
  
"Of course." Brady touches Sam softly along his arm. "She likes you a lot, you know. Jess."  
  
Sam forces out a laugh, feeling his face go ruddy. "Hey, something's been up with you. Are you doing ok?"  
  
Brady nods. "I'm good."  
  
"Just, since Thanksgiving. You've seemed...off."  
  
"Everything's great," he says, smiling. "Why wouldn't it be?"  
  
Sam lets it go.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They hit up a bar that night that has Route 66 style decor. There's gaslamp lighting and the antelope skull over the door deliberate and shiny, not sunbleached or layered with road dust.  
  
"Brady! Sam!" Jess says from a corner booth. When she stands, she's in a navy blue tank top and dark jeans, with a leather belt that reminds him of Dean's. Sam still finds her kind of terrifying.  
  
"Hey—" he says, before she gets her arms around his neck and hugs him in a way that is basically casual grappling.  
  
Being touchy-feely does not come naturally to him. Sometimes Dad used to grip his shoulder, and he and Dean had scuffled a lot, but those were the exceptions; everything else was monsters.  
  
"Hey, Jess," he says, patting her on the back awkwardly and smiling over her shoulder at her friends. He notices how her hair smells like warmth and cheap shampoo. Something clean.  
  
"We're on our second round," she says, and drags him into the seat next to her.  
  
"Cool, looks like we better catch up."  
  
"Shots," one of her friends says, handing him one and introducing herself. "Jennifer. I think I've seen you around. You're, like, super tall."  
  
The guy at the table holds out a hand to shake Sam's. "I'm Luis. Hey, Brady, how's it going?"  
  
Brady claps him on the shoulder. "Hey, man."  
  
"Are we going to keep playing?" Jennifer asks after they've taken their tequila shots and Luis slides Sam a beer.  
  
"You interrupted a game of Truth or Dare," Jess explains. "Which means it's your turn."  
  
Sam laughs. "Yeah?"  
  
Brady squeezes his knee under the table. "Come on, Sam."  
  
Sam shifts casually away, uncomfortable, and flicks a look at him under his eyelashes, wondering if he's being a dick without realising. It's just, they don't do anything in public. Ever.  
  
"Sam," says Jess. "Truth or dare?"  
  
"Well...." he says, not exactly dying to play, but knowing you can't just duck Truth or Dare. He feels this deeply, in the well of learned things. And none of these people are his brother, so he's safe.  
  
"Dare," he says gamely.  
  
Everyone makes impressed noises.  
  
"Big man," Luis says.  
  
Sam raises an eyebrow back. "Believe me, I can take it."  
  
Brady shakes his head, laughing. "Shouldn't have done that."  
  
Sam raises his eyebrows, ready. He's hardened by years of dares ending nowhere good, 'nowhere good' being the roof of the gas station, waiting to drop his jeans onto the next person to come out of the convenience store, or the car, drinking a concoction of the last-inches of liquid from the many plastic bottles in the back seat foot wells. He'd totally hurled out the window that time, hot Oklahoma wind whipping it all back behind them, splattering the side of the car.  
  
Things are turned on their head, here in the real world where dare is fine, tame. Here, truth is the enemy.  
  
"Oh, really," Jess says, elongating the words like she's got something up her sleeve. She raises an eyebrow, "You're real brave, aren't you, Winchester?"  
  
He rests his head back in his hands and fixes her with a smirk. "Something like that," he says.  
  
Luis laughs. Jennifer looks intrigued.  
  
"Ok. I dare you to..." Jess thinks about it for a second, then says, "All right. I dare you to...answer three questions truthfully."  
  
Sam sits up straight. "Hey—" he protests.  
  
Her expression is wide and innocent. "What?"  
  
"Well, isn't that like asking a genie for more wishes?"  
  
"So?"  
  
He shakes his head. "Can't be done." He knows this. And djinn don't answer any wishes, not really.  
  
"Sorry," she sing-songs. "Wasn't specified, so the ruling stands."  
  
"What, got something to hide?" Brady asks, nudging Sam with an elbow, and Sam sends him a sidelong look.  
  
"This is stupid," he says. "Just for the record. But okay, hit me. "  
  
"Yes, excellent," Jess says. "Ok, question one…Where did you grow up?"  
  
"Really? That's your question?"  
  
"Yep. You're this big mystery."  
  
"Says who?"  
  
"Says him." She nods to Brady. "And I asked around, and everyone seems to agree."  
  
Sam's spent his entire college career thus far evading questions about his life, answering with half-truths. "I honestly can't list everywhere I grew up."  
  
"Hurry it up, Winchester," Luis says. "I have something really good for Brady, and he's totally going to pick Dare, I can tell."  
  
"Oh yeah?" Brady says. "Bring it."  
  
Sam shrugs and starts listing, beginning with Lawrence, then skimming over the rest, naming cities. When he's said at least twenty small towns, Jennifer says, "Jesus, you weren't kidding. You a military brat?"  
  
He shrugs, uncomfortable with being honest and not used to being the center of attention like this. "Something like that."  
  
"Ok, ok. Second," Jess says. "What do your parents do?"  
  
Sam sighs. "My dad's on the road a lot. Business. My mom died when I was six months old." He drinks down half his beer. "Next?"  
  
"Ok, final question," says Jess, moving through the ensuing awkward silence. "Who's been sending you mail? I saw the way you looked when you opened that envelope yesterday."  
  
When he doesn't answer readily, Jess raises both eyebrows.  
  
"Uh," Sam says.  
  
Brady knocks their shoulders together. "Yeah, man. I haven't been able to get a straight answer out of you."  
  
Sam feels sick at the idea of telling a lie, but part of him, some part that is dark and deep, feels even more sick at the idea of the truth seeing daylight. It would go something to the tune of, _my brother, Dean, Dean, my brother, this dick who just let me walk out, ten PM, middle of fucking nowhere_.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
That wild urge to tell the whole truth and nothing but makes him reckless.  
  
"Dean. Love of my life," he finally says, which is true, more than he should have let on. "We don't talk anymore, though."  
  
Jennifer leans forward. "An ex?"  
  
"Sort of. It's like, complicated," he finishes lamely. She gives him an unimpressed look, but not before glancing sympathetically at Brady.  
  
"Well, that was a lucrative dare," Jess says. "Did not expect to get that much out of you. Next, Brady...."  
  
Sam feels instant remorse for letting on. But he tells himself it's no big deal. Of all the people to let in on his screwed up feelings for his brother, his college friends are the least dangerous. It's virtually impossible for them to find out the whole story. This information will be at worst referenced from time to time, and most likely just swept under the rug. He needs to loosen up, stop being so paranoid all of the time. He's normal now, with a normal college kid life.  
  
After Brady's taken a shot of the hottest hot sauce the bar has on offer while Luis laughed and offered him more, and Jennifer's chosen truth and told them about the time she went streaking through downtown San Francisco, Sam escapes to the bathroom.  
  
"Love of your life, huh?" Brady asks, somehow coming in so quietly that Sam hadn't even heard the door open.  
  
Sam continues unzipping his pants.  
  
"Something like that," he says again.  
  
Brady's face looks red in the mirror. Maybe it's the hot sauce. His expression is uncertain for a moment, and then he seems to make his mind up. He raises an eyebrow and then looks meaningfully at the crotch of Sam's worn jeans. "You need me to take care of anything?"  
  
"No, everything's fine," Sam says slowly. "I've got the, ah, next two minutes pretty well-covered."  
  
He waits for Brady to go.  
  
Brady smiles at him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Alright. I get it. I'll get you another drink and let you think about it."  
  
The look Brady gives him leaves him no doubt what he'll do if Sam does decide to think about it.  
  
"Ok," Sam says, as Brady leaves. He spends the next minute, thinking with some chagrin how Dean had always tried to get him laid. Ironic that it only works when he's not around.  
  
The door swings open again as Sam's finishing up, zipping up his pants.  
  
"You know, if I wanted my dick in your mouth right now, " he says without looking up, "I'd put it there."  
  
"Sorry, Sammy. I just ate."  
  
Sam shrieks.  
  
"You're not the first to offer me a hot dog," says Dean's reflection in the mirror. "Not even the first today. I had one for lunch, actually, just outside of Bakersfield."  
  
Impossibly, Dean's still there when Sam whirls around away from his reflection.  
  
His eyes don't betray much when he looks Sam over. "Hey."  
  
Sam nods, a jerk of his chin. "Hey. Uh, hi. Shit. Dean."  
  
He clears his throat, wondering what he's supposed to do in this situation. But then Dean smiles at him, bright and clear, and Sam can't help but grin back, and Dean's eyes squint up, so happy to see him. It's like a mirror of a mirror of a mirror, and so on.  
  
Dean goes to clap him on the shoulder just as Sam takes a step forward with an arm out. It comes out a strange half hug, more a chest bump with a hand in there, and they separate almost immediately.  
  
"You're here," Sam says, not able to keep the wonder out of his voice.  
  
"Yes. In a bar bathroom. A-Plus. Your tighty-whities are jammed in your zipper."  
  
Dean is right. There is a moment of silence while Sam fixes that, unzipping and zipping again, and when he's done, Dean grabs the door. "Buy you a beer?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam says, and follows him out like he's in some sort of trance.  
  
He lets Dean order for him at the bar, taking the moment to look him over now that the shock is ebbing. Dean looks _good_. Sam wonders how many times had he tried not to miss this, Dean flagging down the bartender wearing that jacket with the collar popped, hair in the deliberate disarray he knows takes Dean twenty minutes in front of the mirror. A stupid smile spreads across Sam's face, which he hides away as soon as Dean passes him the beer.  
  
"Two for you," Dean says and, gathering the next bottles lovingly into his arms along with a basket of fries, "Two for me. Now let's go, I've been driving for like nine hours straight."  
  
"Go where?"  
  
Dean looks at him like maybe Sam's lost a few brain cells since the last time they saw each other. "To the table," he says. "Hang out with your buddies."  
  
Sam glances to the table in question with a sudden horror, remember what he'd admitted only five minutes ago. That's the last place he wants Dean.  
  
"Uhm," Sam says. What the hell had he been thinking? "Shit. I don't think that's such a good—"  
  
"No, that's cool," Dean says, feigning nonchalance. "You don't want to be seen with me, I get it."  
  
"No, it's not like that. Just—"  
  
"Great," Dean says, flashing him a grin, and heads toward the table.  
  
"Shit," says Sam.  
  
But he can't even muster up the requisite panic because Dean is _there_ , in the same room as him. He drove out here to see him. Dean drove out _here_ to see _him_. Not that he would ever admit it, Sam knows. Would probably make up some story about a case. But Sam _knows_.  
  
When he catches up, Dean slaps him on the back and grins at the table. "So, I've been on the road all day. Which one of you has an embarrassing story to tell me about Sam here?"  
  
He slides into the seat where Jess had been five minutes ago, and Sam feels a sense of deep foreboding as he takes his seat next to him.  
  
Brady looks bemused, eying Dean like he's sizing him up. Doubtless recognizing him from the photo and the story Sam had just told. He sees a brief flicker of how Dean would look if you saw him for the first time, Dean in his composite parts. Freckles. Wide mouth. Wide shoulders. Crooked smile. Never has managed to shave clean.  
  
He elbows Sam. "Introductions?"  
  
"Oh, right," Sam says. "Meet Luis, Jennifer. We just met today actually. And this is, you know, Brady."  
  
"Brady?"  
  
"The hot dog guy," says Sam out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
Dean's face clears in recognition. "Oh, right, right."  
  
Brady looks at him strangely, before saying, "And Jess saw some people from lab, so she's over by the pool table."  
  
"And I'm Dean—" Dean starts, but cuts off when Sam begins choking on beer. Thankfully, he doesn't give his last name.  
  
"Oh hey," Brady says, as he pats Sam on the back. He looks significantly at Jennifer and Luis. "He's the guy, right? The guy who's been sending you all the packages and letters."  
  
Dean sounds pleased, turning to Sam. "Oh, you got those."  
  
"Yes, I got the sock," Sam confirms, wishing he could melt into the seat.  
  
"We were just talking about you." Jennifer tells him, and then elbows Sam. "You said you two didn't talk any more."  
  
This is a disaster.  
  
"Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?" he asks Dean, getting ready to stand.  
  
"But I just got here," Dean says. He sends Jennifer a wink. "And I still have all this beer to drink."  
  
Sam wishes he could take everything back, doesn't know what he was thinking. His brother's about to find out something that will either give him fodder to embarrass Sam for life or ensure that he _really_ won't speak to Sam again.  
  
As it is, Jennifer gives Dean a confused look. Sam wishes he could tell her that she's got it wrong, that Dean isn't flirting with her, he's actually just a jerk who likes making Sam uncomfortable in public.  
  
"So, what do you do, Dean?" asks Brady.  
  
Dean waves a hand. "Oh, you know. I'm on the road a lot, always on the job. Performing acts for the general public, new town every week. It's a hard life, but someone's gotta do it."  
  
Brady nods. "So, you're in a theater troupe? Something like that?"  
  
"No, I'm more like a superhero," Dean says, knocking Sam's knee with his own as Sam snickers. "So what is it that you do, _Brady_?"  
  
Brady straightens. "I'm a student. But I have an internship this summer at the hospital my uncle owns."  
  
"Oh, an _internship_ ," Dean says. It's the kind of middle-class statement he and Dean used to make fun of. Thankfully Dean cuts off when Sam gives him a sharp look. He taps Sam on the chest, on the pin. "Hey, that's the shitty pin I sent—"  
  
"From Nevada, yeah. It just got here."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. "Man, you were supposed to lose that thing, not wear it all over."  
  
"Looks like it ended up on my jacket instead."  
  
"It was a joke. It's ugly. Take it off, you're embarrassing yourself."  
  
Sam grins. "I dunno, I kind of like it."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Dean says, touching the pin again, hooking his finger under it. "It's like you missed me or something."  
  
"Shut up," he says. He feels lit up from the inside with uncomfortable happiness and annoyance, equal parts. And from the way he's still grinning, he's sure everyone can tell.  
  
"Sam," Brady says, slipping his hand over Sam's knee again, and Dean stills next to him.  
  
"Well, that's our cue." Sam stands, knocking Brady's hand away. "Dean and I have to head out."  
  
Brady puts his hands up. "Whoa, where's the fire?"  
  
"Sam has to study," Dean says. He rolls his eyes. "Jeez, Sam. Way to ruin everything."  
  
Brady frowns. "Study for what?"  
  
"You know—" Dean waves a hand. "Calculus or whatever."  
  
"But...Sam finished calc last quarter."  
  
"English, then." He grabs Sam's jacket. "Let's go."  
  
"I'll see you later," Sam says apologetically. The farther away from people they are, the better. "It was nice to meet you guys. Brady, I'll catch you soon."  
  
He walks out quickly, keeping step with Dean and experiencing the fresh feeling of relief of getting away with a lie. The street is cold and mostly empty, and the sounds of the bar are muted once he and Dean are ten steps down the sidewalk, completely gone after half a block. It feels so normal to turn his head and see Dean walking next to him, the silhouette of his brother cut by street lamps, shadowed in night. If not for fourteen months of silence between them, it's almost like they were never apart.  
  
Dean begins to slow, and Sam sees that the Impala is parked a half block up.  
  
"Dean," he says, slowing as well but for different reasons. There are things he has to set straight.  
  
Dean looks at him curiously. "What?"  
  
Sam takes a deep breath, and sets his jaw. He's not taking another step until he gets an answer. "Why are you here?" he asks.  
  
Dean hesitates, before meeting Sam's eyes. "A hunt."  
  
But Sam knows him, can tell that's not really why. He grins, shaking his head. Dean is so full of shit.  
  
"Yeah?" he says. "A hunt?"  
  
Dean shrugs easily now, like he's chosen his story and is sticking with it. "Yeah."  
  
And it's just like Dean to lie to his face, while all the time his actions reveal the truth, clear as day.  
  
"Ok," Sam says.  
  
They get in the car, and it feels so normal to be sitting on the well-polished leather, the feel of his knees hitting the glove compartment. Normal, everything is so normal.  
  
"So," Dean says when they've driven in silence for a block in the direction Sam indicated. He clears his throat. "So, that Brady kid—"  
  
Sam doesn't want to have this conversation. "What about him?"  
  
"I don't know, Sam. Is this the new you or something? Like, I've heard stories about what goes on in college."  
  
"It's not like that."  
  
"Ok, ok." Dean drums his fingers on the wheel. "Haven't seen my kid brother in a while, just wanted to know what was up with him. So sue me."  
  
"It's not a thing," Sam says again. "Take a right here."  
  
He's not lying. He and Brady are just friends. Guys who like getting off with little to no emotional baggage.  
  
His phone vibrates then, and he reads a text from Jess that says, _Ex-boyfriend? And you didn't introduce me?_ before he pockets it again.  
  
He's aware he was an asshole, leaving like that. To Jess, who he asked out for drinks, to Brady, who has been nothing but a good guy. He knows it objectively but a part of him doesn't care. None of it seems to matter right now, now that Dean's here.  
  
He tries to find it in himself to be annoyed at Dean for showing up out of the blue like this, but it's an impossible thing. Seeing him after a long absence feels like his head is clearing, like he's on even footing again, not running from anything. He'd hopped a Greyhound bus that night and has never let himself regret it, but suddenly the weight of the choice he made is heavy on his shoulders and he's homesick. For something. For this car. For his brother.  
  
"How's Dad?" he asks, wanting desperately to know about him, too, an uncertain tremor in his voice like he's been on an extended trip and has only just found enough quarters to call home.  
  
Dean shakes his head in response, streetlights sliding over his face. "He's good, Sam."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah." Dean pauses, as if deciding whether to say more, and finally continues. "Actually, he got his arm sliced open by an ugly mother last month. But it's healing. He's ok."  
  
"Good."  
  
Sam doesn't feel angry at the thought of their dad for the first time in a long while, which is kind of freeing, really.  
  
"And your _case_?" he asks, air quotes implied.  
  
"Right, my case," Dean plays along, saying in a cowboy twang, "Would you believe me if I said there was a spirit in these parts?"  
  
"Oh yeah?" Sam rolls his eyes. "What kind of spirit."  
  
"Creepy fucker," says Dean.  
  
"Sure, sure." Sam grins.  
  
But Dean, inexplicably, says, "Shut up, I'm serious. I'm going to look into it first thing tomorrow."  
  
Sam stares at him, and there's no hint of a joke on Dean's face. "You're really serious," he says slowly.  
  
"Yeah. Thought maybe you'd help me out? Get back in the saddle."  
  
"So," Sam clarifies. "You actually came all the way out here, to where I live, after a year of not seeing me...for a case?"  
  
Dean's eyebrows meet halfway up his face. "Why else would I be here?"  
  
"Well, Jesus," Sam half-shouts. "Don't sugarcoat it or anything."  
  
"Sam," Dean says, in furiously placating tones. "Don't worry about it, man. I'll be out of your hair in no time."  
  
"That's not—" Sam says, but then falls silent, remembering that Dean's total cluelessness is one of the many reasons it's better Sam left when he did. He feels a red hot anger simmering in him, something that makes him want to do something unnameable, he doesn't know what. He can't believe he got his hopes up.  
  
"Sam, come on!"  
  
They're on the street where Sam lives, but Dean keeps driving. "You just passed it," Sam says.  
  
Dean looks surprised, and swerves over to park. "Oh. Great."  
  
Sam knows it would have been easy to work out which his place was if Dean had expended just the tiniest bit of effort and done his research. Dean's surprise is just proof that he really hadn't come here to see him.  
  
"Great," Sam doesn't agree, and gets out of the car.  
  
He's been entertaining the romantic idea that had Dean looked in on him at least once — hell, maybe even a couple of times — to make sure he was doing ok. He's had moments where he's imagined the weight of eyes on his back as he went about his daily life, to class or the bar, imagining maybe Dean was checking up on him from afar or had just wanted to see him, but didn't know how to come up and start a conversation after the way they left it. But it's clear now that Dean's never been there.  
  
Sam takes the stairs in threes, fishing out his keys and jerking the door open wide.  
  
"Sam, come on," Dean says behind him.  
  
Sam ignores him, flicking the light on to reveal the small living room.  
  
He's somewhat gratified when Dean whistles, low, and asks, "How'd you afford this place?" like it's a palace rather than one of the shittier apartments off-campus. Most of his friends are going to live on-campus the rest of the four years, but Sam won't be able to afford it.  
  
"Full ride, remember?" He goes and puts his wallet and keys on the counter. "And loans up my ass so I can eat."  
  
"Well, it's great."  
  
Despite himself, Sam takes a second to see the apartment as Dean would. The thrift store TV and his roommate's XBox, the ratty couch with the one pillow. The kitchen table spread with open textbooks and a crumpled Twinkie wrapper from the gas station habit Sam's still trying to kick.  
  
"Roommate?" Dean asks and Sam nods.  
  
"But he pretty much started living with his girlfriend after their first date. Haven't seen him in weeks."  
  
"Sweet deal. Looks like you can be as messy as you want."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Sam goes to close a few of the books on the table and neatly pile the loose papers. He loves living alone, and this is just one reason why. He loves the space, the fact that no one's going to shove his homework into the couch cracks or use his textbook to smash a monster's head in.  
  
"Remember how you used to fuck with my school stuff?" he says. "That math book?"  
  
"It was the one time," says Dean. "The first thing I grabbed from the back seat. It was like you wanted me to be eaten by that slime monster thing or something."  
  
"Would have been fine by me," Sam says, vividly reliving in memory the moment where he had to drop a gooey Intro to Algebra 2 book into the roaring salt fire.  
  
Dean ignores him, walking around looking at his stuff, toeing up the edge of the rug in the entryway to reveal smooth floor.  
  
He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously, Sammy? You asking for trouble?"  
  
"I actually had a different rug that I drew sigils on—" Sam explains. "But then we accidentally set it on fire. A party—"  
  
"At least lay down some salt, man." Dean flicks out his pocket knife and squats down. "I swear. Civilian life has made you soft."  
  
"I'm not soft," Sam says and tries to stay pissed off as he watches Dean scratch away at the laminate floor, he really does. But he sees the careful flick of Dean's wrist, the tug of Dean's lip between his teeth, with a fondness he's only ever felt for his brother.  
  
When he's finished a couple spindly runes, Dean drops the rug back into place and stands. "You're welcome," he says, giving Sam a look of censure, and never mind, this time Sam doesn't find it hard muster up some annoyance.  
  
"I'll get you a blanket," Sam says, and leaves the room.  
  
When he comes back with his roommate's quilt, he's surprised by how very young Dean looks, tired and rumpled and sitting on the couch with his boots kicked off. He tosses Dean the blanket and then turns again, ignoring the pang in his chest. He throws over his shoulder, "Good luck tomorrow."  
  
"You know, I don't know why you're suddenly pissed," Dean calls as Sam starts toward his own room. "But there are people dying — in your own backyard, might I add — and all I'm asking you to do is help me save them."  
  
"I'm going to bed," Sam says.  
  
But he doesn't go anywhere. He stands there in the hallway instead, awkwardly listening to Dean as he pulls some stuff out of his duffle.  
  
"Chill, Sam," Dean says after a minute, and when he turns around Sam sees that Dean has magically materialized a six-pack from his bag and is muttering, "I swear, you're worse than—"  
  
Sam frowns. "Than who?"  
  
"Just some girl," Dean says. "Get over here. Stop hovering."  
  
Whoever it is is not just 'some girl,' it turns out. Dean tells Sam the story of his failed relationship over plates of frozen waffles, after they've demolished both the six-pack and some more beer from Sam's fridge. She was a reporter in Missouri who wouldn't put up with Dean's shit, and definitely didn't believe him when Dean told her about what he and his family do.  
  
"Can't believe you told here there are _monsters_ ," Sam says, shaking his head.  
  
Dean folds up a syrup-drenched waffle into his mouth, and it's only because of years of talking at each other with their mouths full that Sam understands him when he says, "Well, it's not happening again, that's for sure."  
  
"You think she'll ever take you back?" Sam asks, hypnotised watching Dean lick syrup off his fingers. He feels drunk and a little sad about the idea of Dean spilling his heart out to someone.  
  
Dean shrugs. "Maybe one day. And that's a big 'maybe.' But eh, what was I going to do? Settle down? It's ultimately for the best." He heaves a dramatic sigh. "I'm a lone wolf, Sammy. A lone wolf."  
  
"Yeah, that's you," Sam says. And although Dean doesn't say it outright, Sam knows, like he knows everything about Dean on some deeper level, that Dean had loved her. Maybe still loves her.  
  
Despite the subject matter, it's a good talk. Dean being in Palo Alto, in Sam's apartment, feels only right, almost normal. He's used to knowing everything about his brother, and vice versa, and Sam catches himself sinking back into things. He has to remind himself not to get too comfortable, that Dean is an ill fitting puzzle piece that Sam will try and fail to fit into his life here. But the truth is unfortunate and he doesn't want to think about it. Isn't going to think about it. Not tonight.  
  
When Sam gets up from his place on the floor to head to bed, Dean says, "Hey, Sam."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Sorry I pissed you off earlier."  
  
"Sorry about your heart," Sam responds.  
  
Dean grunts and fluffs the pillow on the couch before collapsing face-first onto it. "I'll live. Pretty much indestructible."  
  
It's true. Sam turns off the light. "Goodnight, Dean."


	2. Chapter 2

His brother isn't gone the next morning like Sam had half-hoped. Instead, he's sitting at the kitchen table, with a plate of toast at his elbow and Sam's laptop open in front of him. He turns at the small sound of Sam entering the room.  
  
"He's awake! Ah, the life of a student."  
  
Sam grunts, rubbing a hand over his face. The clock above the stove reads seven-thirty.   
  
Dean nods to what's left of the pot. "Have some coffee."  
  
"This is my kitchen," Sam points out, but pours himself a mug anyway.  
  
The sound of a car horn in the distance is the only sound for a long moment, and then Sam takes the seat next to Dean, as well as the last piece of toast off the plate while Dean's distracted.  
  
"Hey!" Dean says, but it's good-natured and he watches Sam chew. "Better?"   
  
Sam closes his eyes, enjoying the butter, the toasted crust. He nods and sips some coffee. It's good. "It's cold," he says instead.  
  
He catches the faint smile on Dean's mouth before Dean clears his throat and mutters, "Such a whiny bitch, I swear. Take a look."  
  
He turns the computer so Sam can see the gruesome picture he has pulled up on the screen — it shows the body of a guy Sam's age maybe, discolored skin and bloodshot eyes.   
  
Sam grimaces. "Nice."  
  
"Body of Charles Grimes, Stanford student."  
  
Sam leans towards the screen to get a better look. It appears to be the inside of a sports shed, with athletic equipment, mats, and a mascot outfit off to the side. "I heard about that."  
  
"Yes. You'd think you would have, seeing as you live here and all."  
  
"Dude, stop giving me a hard time," Sam says, and returns to the picture. He'd decided against looking into this just yesterday, but apparently he'd been wrong. So much for putting it out of his mind. "How does the death of Charles Grimes have something to do with the spirit you mentioned?"  
  
Dean looks a little shifty. "Well...I assume there's a spirit." When Sam gives him a look, Dean points to the photo. "See the marks around his neck?"  
  
On examination, Sam sees Charles's neck is ringed in red. "From the abrasions, it looks like rope. Did he hang himself?"  
  
"At first glance I'd say this was suicide," Dean says. "And that's what the authorities are ruling it. But that theory doesn't hold up when you consider that the death took place in a locked shed...a locked shed that can only be locked from the inside."  
  
"Huh."  
  
"No windows, only one door."  
  
"And let me guess—" Sam scans the article. "No rope to be found."  
  
Dean shakes his head. "Not even a thread. Just some football equipment and the odd boxing glove."  
  
"Nothing that could have caused those marks."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Sam sits back. "Well, it's not a lot to go on."  
  
"But we've gone off of a lot less," Dean interjects.  
  
"Dean—"  
  
"Are you serious?" Dean frowns at him. "You really don't care about this anymore, do you? You know, if this is too much trouble for you, if you can't take the time out of your busy schedule to save a couple of your classmates, then by all means—"   
  
"All right, all right," Sam says, mainly wanting to shut him up. It's too early for this. He downs his coffee, seeing that he's going to need it. "Fine. It's worth looking into."  
  
"Well, ok then. You're in?" Dean asks, looking hopeful.  
  
"Well, you need someone to go with you. I can't just let you run free around campus. Who knows what you'll do."  
  
"Thanks, Sammy. I'll be the best arm candy," Dean promises. "So, first thing's first. Thought we'd go to the police station this morning, then maybe check out the library."  
  
Sam knows what that means. "Dean," he says, not quite able to stop the whine in his voice. "You know how I feel about lying to cops."  
  
"We'll say we're journalism students or something. It's no big deal."  
  
"Ugh. Fine."  
  
"Don't get too excited."  
  
"Believe me, I won't." Sam pushes back from the table. "Just let me go change."  
  
He pulls on socks in his room, and shoes, and then opens the second drawer for a clean shirt. He runs his fingers down the pile of clothes, until he finds the worn, soft cotton of a shirt he keeps folded at the very bottom.  
  
If he's very still, he can hear Dean moving things around in the living room, so he allows himself a moment. He pulls the Nine Inch Nails shirt from the pile and brings it to his face, inhaling. He's never worn it, accidentally brought it with him when he left, and there's only the lingering scent of Dean's deodorant left on it.  
  
He thinks about how Dean's in the other room, right now, real and familiar, and how from the moment he'd walked into that bathroom last night it's been like the edges of Sam's two lives are blurring.   
  
He has his face still buried in the shirt, lost in thought, when Dean's voice says, "Hey, wasn't that mine?"  
  
Sam jumps. "No," he says guiltily, dropping it into the drawer and grabbing one of his own. "What?"  
  
Dean rolls his eyes.  
  
Sam pulls the shirt quickly over his head. "Ready to go?"  
  
But he stills when Dean claps a hand around the back of his neck, letting it rest there.  
  
"I've got a whole bag of dirty shirts, Sam," he says, in strangely intimate tones. Sam's breath catches, even though he knows that Dean's fucking with him. "If you want one."  
  
"I don't want your shit, Dean."  
  
He tries to shove Dean's hand away, but Dean holds on.   
  
"It must've been meant to be or something, me never doing my laundry." Dean gives him a knowing smile that kind of makes him look like a creepy pervert, if Sam were pressed to say. "They're all sweaty from the road, the open air. In fact, here, have this one." He starts taking off the one he's wearing.  
  
"Gross," Sam says, and sighs when Dean tosses it to him, catching it on instinct against his chest in a crumpled handful. He throws it back at him, although the impact against Dean's bag isn't satisfying. "Can we leave already? Daylight's burning."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The station is a mission-style building, huge and imposing. Sam looks up at it with resignation. Throwing themselves in the path of the cops for no reason has featured strongly in Sam's life. Sam gives today's cover story about seventy percent chance of believability.   
  
"Just like old times," Dean grins as they're getting out of the car. He smacks a pen to Sam's chest. "Here, pretend to write stuff down."  
  
"Fine."  
  
They start up the police station steps, which are brick and imposing.   
  
"If it's a chick, you're up," Dean says, as they push open the station doors.  
  
"What? Why me?"  
  
"Your weird superpower."  
  
Sam snorts. "What, that I look honest? Not like I'm trying to con them out of something?"  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Sam tries to recall the first time he had had to get information out of someone under fake pretenses. Maybe he was twelve? He and Dean had pretended to be selling candy bars for a youth group. No, fourteen. He was fourteen and really nervous, but he ultimately pulled it off because older women trusted his face. Dad bought them cheeseburgers and extra fries when they got back with the info, and told them they did real good. Someone was going to live because of them.  
  
It isn't the best feeling, knowing how easily he can lie and get away with it.  
  
Sensing Sam's reluctance, Dean says, "Play to your strengths, Sammy," and steers him toward a woman bent over the front desk.  
  
"Excuse me, kind lady," Dean says.  
  
She slowly looks up, away from a complicated form on top of a formidable stack of paperwork. "How did you two get in here?"  
  
Sam tries to ignore the glint of the badge on her chest. Dean elbows him, and the woman's eyes track the movement.  
  
"We're doing an internship for the school paper," Sam says quickly, before Dean can blow their cover before they even begin. "Stanford school paper. We're wondering if you have time to answer a few questions?" He tries to look earnest, furrowing his brow and slouching a little. "We'd really appreciate the help, we really need this credit, so if we could just—"  
  
She waves a hand to shut him up. "Ok, ok. I get it, save the explanation. You have three minutes."  
  
Dean jumps in. "What can you tell us about the recent death of student Charlie Grimes?"  
  
"I'm not at liberty to comment on that. The circumstances of Grimes's death are being kept confidential, as per the wishes of the family."   
  
"We understand completely," Sam says, and he thinks she might look a little less impatient at that. "Is there anything of significance you can tell us about this horrible tragedy? Any less confidential detail?"  
  
"Well, it was Big Game day," she says after a moment of consideration. "But the time of death was estimated to be before the game. If that's a lead at all, it's circumstantial at best. You can put that in your article, might get rid of some of the rumors that say this was somehow related to the outcome of the football game."  
  
Sam nods, only remembering to scribble down a couple notes when she eyes the school notebook he brought with him.  
  
"I'm afraid that's all the time I have for you, boys," she says.  
  
Dean overdoes it in his, "Thanks ever so much," and she looks only minorly charmed when he flutters his eyelashes.  
  
Sam tosses the notebook in the car two minutes later, pulling his jacket around him in a gust of breeze. An oak tree showers its leaves. It's fall.  
  
"So all we learned is that Grimes died the day of the Big Game," he says, leaning against the car.  
  
Dean puts his elbow next to him on the car. "Is that supposed to mean something to me? What's the Big Game?"  
  
"It's an annual football game held between Stanford and Berkeley," Sam tells him. "I remember last year the school went insane, all school pride and covered in anti-Berkeley banners. Our unofficial mascot is the Stanford Tree so there were a lot of signs featuring a tree violating a bear. That kind of thing. I didn't go to the game this year." He shrugs. "I had a big paper due so I was in the library all day."  
  
"Of course," Dean says, and his tone is weird, almost...fond. Dean's always secretly thought everything about Sam was hilarious. Of all the things Sam's had reason to doubt, he never doubted that.  
  
Dean notices Sam looking at him, and clears his throat. "You have—" he says, motioning. "On your head—"  
  
He reaches out, and Sam starts as he feels fingers card through his hair.  
  
"What?" he says stupidly as the leaves flutter to his shoulders.  
  
"Library?" Dean responds, and Sam's left staring after him as Dean heads around to his side of the car. His cheeks feel warm in the cold air, replaying the moment.  
  
The woman at the library seems similarly unimpressed when he and Dean find their way down to the periodical section in the basement. She is wearing an actual _pince nez_ and takes one look at Dean and starts in on a stern lecture about how to use the microreader.  
  
The machine is dusty with disuse, and Sam escapes her notice by slowly unfolding his notebook in front of him and setting out his pens. He listens as Dean assures the librarian that he is, in layman's terms, a pro at microfiche.  
  
He groans in relief once she's gone.  
  
Sam opens the laptop to the article on Charles Grimes. "So we're looking for, what? Newspaper articles from the date of the murder?" he asks. "Any other deaths on campus?"  
  
"Seems like a good enough place to start. Because if this is a spirit, fifty bucks says there's a significance to that date." Dean pulls up a creaky chair and says, "Ok, I'll take the microfiche, since I'm so well-trained. You take more recent publications."  
  
Sam briefly thinks about the essays he has due the coming week, but shoves the worry aside without too much trouble and opens a filing cabinet in the corner. It groans under the weight of many stuffed folders. Sam pulls out an armful and opens the first onto the table, finding it stuffed full of yellowing school newspapers with black and white photos of Stanford in the eighties.  
  
It takes almost an hour of digging through old records and film to find anything, but during that time, Sam learns a lot about his school. He also learns more than he ever wanted to about the history of football on campus and spends a considerable amount of time watching Dean out the corner of his eye.  
  
His almost misses the article dated just last year.  
  
"I can't believe it," he mutters. He folds the paper in front of him.  
  
"Find something?" Dean asks through a mouthful of the beef jerky he'd fished from his pocket sometime in the last twenty minutes.  
  
"Yeah, I think so. Listen to this: 'Larson Smith hangs himself in an athletic shed on the Stanford football field.' That sounds like something, right? And it happened just last year."  
  
Dean pulls his chair closer and leans in, the warmth of his shoulder pressing Sam's. "Great. I can't believe I just went through the last fifty years' worth of newspaper articles," he gripes. "This Larson kid a Stanford student?"  
  
Sam nods. "Yeah, a senior. Or super senior, actually. He was a communications major, but was having a hard time. Seems the guy couldn't pass the one science class he needed to graduate, so he was here for a fifth year."  
  
"Dude, I know what a super senior means. How come the police didn't say anything about this when they found Grimes?"  
  
"Students commit suicide each year, I guess. And since they're suicides, there's no ongoing investigation like there would be with a string of murders. Case closed."  
  
"Until us," Dean says. He raises an eyebrow. "What do you think, Sammy? Still think there's no case here?"  
  
"Fine, I admit that the connection is pretty compelling. Larson could definitely have come back as an angry spirit." Sam leans into the laptop, re-examining the picture of Grimes's body. He taps the screen, at the marks on Grimes's neck. "Larson hung himself, so there's your rope."  
  
"But what about the dates?" asks Dean, checking both articles. "They're different."  
  
"So, maybe the death wasn't on a specific date, but both did…"  
  
"Fall on the date of Big Game," Dean finishes.  
  
"Because the date changes," Sam says.  
  
"Holy shit," Dean says, and Sam wipes away a chunk of beef jerky that falls out of Dean's mouth onto the keyboard. Pointedly. Dean doesn't notice, instead continuing, "Right, so, Larson kills himself on the day of the Big Game. Spirit comes back and kills Grimes the next year, makes it look like a suicide. With ghost rope. We've got our pattern. Booyeah."  
  
Sam taps his chin. "But why'd he kill Grimes specifically?"  
  
"Beats me. What else can we find out about this guy?"  
  
Sam runs his finger down the article he'd found. "Larson grew up in Sonoma county where his parents took him river rafting every summer. Parents torn up about his death, obviously. He was a good writer and had a lot of school pride. He was the mascot all four years."  
  
"Four? I thought you said he was a Supe?"  
  
"A what?"  
  
Dean makes an impatient noise. "A super senior. Keep up."  
  
"No, that's not a thing," Sam tells him, and turns back to keep reading the article. "Anyway, I guess eventually he was told that his failing grades made him less than an exemplary student, and his title as mascot was taken away. That was around the time he killed himself."  
  
"Tough break. But that still doesn't explain why he killed Grimes."  
  
"Wrong place at the wrong time?" Sam guesses, then jumps in his chair as his phone buzzes.  
  
"Mr. Popular," Dean says, trying to look over Sam's shoulder at the screen. "Is that whatshisname? The blond guy? You know, the uptight one?"  
  
Sam talks over him. "No, it's Luis. He and Jennifer are getting lunch and invited us."  
  
Probably to get the d/l on him and Dean, Sam thinks with some despair.  
  
"I could do lunch," Dean says in all seriousness.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Oh ho," Dean crows. "So you _do_ want me to hang out with your friends."  
  
"Dude, I barely even know them," Sam says. Then he remembers what Jess had told him. "Luis did know Charles Grimes, though. Maybe he can tell us what the connection was between Grimes and Larson?"  
  
"Sounds like a plan," says Dean. "Is Brady going to be there?"  
  
"You're obsessed with Brady," says Sam.  
  
"I guess that makes two of us." When Sam looks at him, Dean's grin is fake, kind of worried almost.  
  
Sam files away the folders for a moment, and finally says over his shoulder. "It is possible he'll be there."  
  
"Good to know," Dean says, and then, inexplicably, "Thanks, babe."  
  
Sam turns slowly.  
  
"Dude, not you," says Dean, and gestures to where he's tenderly shutting off the microreader. "She's been real good to me."  
  
"You've always had an unhealthy relationship with inanimate objects," Sam says, thinking of the way Dean's always lusted over Dad's car. "Come on, I'm starving."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Luigi's is a small place a couple blocks from campus, sandwiched between a Starbucks and the bus station. It was the first place Sam stumbled into when he got to Palo Alto last August. He remembers how the slice of veggie pizza he ordered had tasted like freedom, and not just because it was the first time Dean wasn't there to make them get pepperoni.  
  
He doesn't mention that to Dean now, as they order their pizza at the busy counter.  
  
"I'm glad you're here," he says instead, to which Dean responds, "You're paying, bitch," and then goes to find their booth.  
  
When Sam walks up, Brady's saying to Dean, "—I'm actually more into Metallica."  
  
"Man after my own heart," says Dean, and Brady smiles tightly.  
  
"Really?" Sam says, interested, to Brady. "I would have said you were more into Top 40 stuff."  
  
"Things change," Brady says cryptically.   
  
"Sam. How's it going?" Luis asks, moving over so they can all fit.  
  
"Good, good." Sam scoots into the booth. "I've been showing Dean around. The...sights and stuff."  
  
And by sights he means the dustiest basement room of the library.  
  
"How long is he planning on staying?" Brady asks Sam, but Dean cuts in.  
  
"Not sure yet," he says. And if Sam's honest with himself, he kind of likes the edge to Dean's smile when he says, "Actually, I didn't expect to like it so much here, but so far it's been great. Was thinking of staying awhile, maybe. Isn't that right, Sammy?"  
  
"Yeah, great," Sam says.  
  
"Great," Brady says blandly, looking between the two of them.  
  
Sam takes a long drink from his straw. Dean starts talking to Luis.  
  
"Are you coming to the party tonight?" Jennifer asks Sam. "After the game, I mean."  
  
"I was thinking about it," he says. He'd heard something earlier during his Wednesday class, but hadn't planned on Dean showing up and dropping this case in his lap. "You?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm friends with a bunch of the cheerleaders." She leans in. "You can bring Dean."  
  
"Right," Sam says. He laughs an uncomfortable sort of laugh, and she gives him a sympathetic look.  
  
"Hey, sad story about your friend Charlie," Dean's saying to Luis. "I just heard."  
  
Luis looks down at his hands, mouth screwing up. "Yeah, it's really tough."  
  
"Tell me about him. Was he into football?"  
  
Sam kicks Dean under the table to tell him to back off. Luckily, Luis takes the overly direct question as friendly interest  
  
"No, he wasn't too into football," he says. "He was more into basketball."  
  
"Oh." Sam carefully doesn't look at Dean. That ruins that connection.  
  
Luis continues, however. "Since he was going to be school mascot, though— Well, that tree mascot, not the official-official one. Since he was going to do that, he was going to have to go to all the football games, too." He laughs quietly, and finishes, "He wasn't too into that. Thought football players were dicks."  
  
"Sounds like a good guy," Sam says.  
  
"And he died the day of the Big Game," Dean says, looking at Sam significantly.  
  
Luis meets Dean's eyes. "Yeah. Yeah, he did."  
  
"Sounds like our number's up," says Dean abruptly, elbowing Sam to move over so they can slide out of the booth.  
  
"I'm so sorry about what happened," Sam says to Luis as he's getting up.  
  
Luis nods. "It is what it is, I guess."  
  
Their number's not up. When they reach the counter, Dean slips his hands in his pockets and idles there, staring into the middle distance.  
  
"Where's the pizza?" Sam asks, suspicious.  
  
Dean shifts closer, and Sam glances at him, sidelong.  
  
"The costume was hanging in pristine condition on a hanger next to him," Dean tells him, in hushed tones, like they're meeting undercover.  
  
"Huh?" Sam says.  
  
"In the picture of Grimes's body. The tree costume was hanging there with it's big crazy looking eyes." Dean mimes this with both hands. "I didn't realize it was significant until now."  
  
Sam thinks back to the picture, and nods. He had noticed it. "And Luis says Charles was taking over as mascot," he says.  
  
"I mean, it makes sense, right? Because maybe Larson's spirit wasn't too pleased about that."  
  
"Yeah, and if Larson killed himself because he felt like he didn't have anything left to live for after the honor of being unofficial mascot was taken away, his spirit has got to be royally pissed about anyone else taking his place." Sam feels a smile spreading across his face that he can't help. "Angry spirit ganks guy who steals his clothes."  
  
"Jeez. Talk about school spirit," Dean says, and lets out a low whistle. "You're lucky I let you get away with taking my shit."  
  
"I don't take your shit," Sam protests. "That just ended up in my bag somehow."  
  
"You know, it's funny," Dean says, ignoring him. He moves out of the way so someone can pass with drinks.  
  
"What's funny?"  
  
"I dunno. That Brady kid—"  
  
Sam turns to look at the table, where Brady's sitting in an annoyed slouch while Jennifer and Luis eat their pizza.  
  
"It's almost like he's—" Dean says, then shakes his head, laughing to himself.  
  
Sam waits. "Like he's what?"  
  
"Like he's jealous or something. I mean, he's obviously a tool—"  
  
" _Dean_."  
  
"—no offense. He's obviously just jealous of how awesome I am. But it's just, I don't know." Dean shakes his head again. "It seems like he's annoyed I'm around. Like, who gets jealous of someone's brother, you know?"  
  
"Yeah, for real," Sam laughs, feeling sick to his stomach. "He's got some issues."  
  
Dean throws an arm over his shoulder. "You know, sometimes I feel like we're the only _not_ crazy people in the world."  
  
Sam ducks his head. "Right?"   
  
He allows himself to lean into Dean a bit, telling himself they're just brothers, hanging out. Dean's always been better than him at casual affection, always mussing Sam's hair and grabbing him by the arm. It's no big deal, and Sam tries not to feel like he's ruined it by being the way he is.  
  
"Winchester!"  
  
He and Dean jerk their heads up at the same time. Professor Chase is coming toward them.  
  
"Don't worry. It's just my teacher," Sam tells Dean out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
But Professor Chase doesn't spare Sam a glance when he reaches them, instead holding his hand out to pump Dean's.  
  
"Dean Winchester?" he says, grinning. "Patrick Chase. You may not recognize me, but I recognize you. Friend of your dad's."  
  
Sam's stomach drops out.  
  
"Oh, hey," Dean says, a cool smile of concealed panic spreading over his own face, although why he'd be worried Sam doesn't know. Dean slides his arm away from Sam's shoulders, almost guiltily.  
  
"I thought that was you," Sam's professor says. "Never expected to run into one of John's kids in my favorite pizza joint on the West Coast."  
  
"Both of his kids, actually," says Dean, jerking his thumb at Sam. "You might remember my younger brother Sam?"  
  
Sam feels himself standing up a little straighter, accidentally.  
  
"Well as I live and breathe," Professor Chase says, eyes squinting up in a smile. "I could have sworn I recognised you. The last time I saw you you were hardly five feet tall, and now look at you. Tall as a bean pole."  
  
Sam shakes his hand as well. "Yes, sir."  
  
Chase is a hunter. It makes sense suddenly, and explains why he's always seemed rough around the edges to Sam, uncomfortably familiar. And he vaguely remembers him now. Some hunt in Mississippi, years ago.  
  
"So what brings you boys to the Bay Area? You working a case?"  
  
Sam flinches at the words being uttered so casually in public. But the rabble of ten, twenty, conversations overlapping in one room does well in covering it up.  
  
Dean clears his throat. "I'm actually working this one," he says. "Sammy just goes to school here."  
  
Sam nods. "I'm actually in your criminal law class."  
  
He's not able to help the surge of pride he feels at the impressed look that crosses his professor's face.  
  
"Hunter kid going to college," Professor Chase says. "Wowee. Good for you, son. That's a real tough thing to achieve."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Sam nods. He's worked damn hard for this. "What are you doing here, if you don't mind my asking?"  
  
"I'm a guest lecturer this year," Chase says. "Hunter's gotta make a living somehow, am I right? Also the library's great. Full of useful lore, primary sources."  
  
"Right," Dean says.  
  
His cell rings. "I gotta take this," he says, and answers. "Chase."  
  
Sam sees that their orders are up, and he takes his plate, two slices of cheese pizza drooping over the edge. Dean does the same.  
  
"Meat party," he whispers to Sam, nudging him to show off the pizza that's piled high with pepperoni and mini sausage pieces, the crust stuffed with bacon.  
  
"I can see that," Sam whispers back.  
  
"Right," Chase barks into the phone. "Yes, twenty minutes."  
  
He snaps the phone closed.  
  
"Faculty meeting," he explains, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders. "That's as exciting as things get around here, boys. Hate to stay, hate to go, you know how it is."  
  
"I understand you completely," Dean says.  
  
"Sam, apologies for not saying hello sooner. I have my assistant do my grading, so I didn't notice the last name. Feel free to come to office hours. I'd love to discuss your future."  
  
"I'll do that," Sam says.  
  
"You boys say hello to your old man for me."  
  
"Sir," Dean nods, and Chase takes his leave.  
  
After the professor's out of sight, Sam gives Dean a look, and Dean raises his eyebrows as if to say, _I know_.  
  
"How do you know Professor Chase?" Jennifer asks Dean when they're setting down their plates at the booth.  
  
"He's actually an old friend of our dad's," says Sam, then freezes in horror. After a beat he corrects, "Sorry, _my_ dad."  
  
Dean stills with his slice of meat party halfway to his mouth.  
  
"Anyway, they're old hunting buddies," Sam babbles. "Once they caught a grizzly bear."  
  
Jennifer frowns. "Isn't that illegal?"  
  
"In Alaska?" Sam tries. He doesn't look Dean's way, hoping his brother will keep his mouth shut at least until they leave, at which point Sam can maybe find a way to explain.  
  
The conversation moves from there, and Sam feels nauseated, the idea of almost being caught out. The idea of what Dean's might be thinking. And what if Chase calls their dad—  
  
The implications of these things leave him more upset by the minute, so that he gives his second slice of pizza to Brady, and by the time they leave he's jittery and sick to his stomach.  
  
"Aren't you going to ask what happened back there?" he asks miserably as they're walking to where Dean parked the car in front of a fire hydrant.  
  
"It's pretty obvious," Dean says casually. "So you didn't tell them you had a brother. That happens. I guess."  
  
Sam flinches at the way he says it. It's like he's done the worst imaginable thing.  
  
"Um, yeah," he says. "Sorry about that."  
  
"Whatever, Sam."  
  
He suffers Dean's silent judgement the whole way back to the apartment, the chilly sun barely warming his cheek where it's pressed against the window, and he doesn't try to say anything until they're going up the stairs. "Um, do you think Chase is going to tell Dad he ran into us?"  
  
He's surprised when Dean answers, following him into the quiet, cool apartment.  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"You tell him you'd be here?"  
  
Dean tosses his jacket on his stuff by the couch. "I don't tell Dad everything, Sam."  
  
"Ok, I was just wondering," Sam mutters. There's a small part of him that hopes their dad finds out, if only because then he might ask after Sam, wonder about his other son for once.   
  
Dean kicks off his boots and perches at the edge of a chair.  
  
"That was really fucked up, Sam," he says and if it were possible, the words would be frayed at the edges.   
  
Sam breathes a sigh of relief. If they talk about it maybe he can make things ok. "I'm sorry, Dean."  
  
Dean spreads his hands. "It's like, I know things are bad right now. I mean, between us— but to not even mention your brother? Your _family_? That's just cold."  
  
"Dean," Sam says. "It's not like that."  
  
He considers telling Dean about the times he's started to dial his number, but doesn't. He'd always stopped before pressing the call button. He wants to tell Dean that he hasn't tried to forget anyone, Dean or Dad, not even once. If he can't talk to them, he definitely can't talk _about_ them to complete strangers, who, no matter how close Sam gets to them, will never understand.  
  
"So, that party Jennifer mentioned," Dean says, moving on, obviously taking Sam's silence as answer enough.  
  
Sam groans. "We are _not_ going." The idea of further interaction between his brother and the general public seems inadvisable at best.  
  
"Why not?" asks Dean. He sounds exasperated, and rightly so. "Football, Sam. America's favorite past time."  
  
"It'll just be a bunch of frat guys and booze," Sam points out.  
  
"Hey, I like booze. And you apparently like—" Dean shrugs, a fake apologetic smile on his face. "—frat guys."  
  
"Douchebags in polo shirts? Thanks, Dean. That's real tempting."  
  
"Exactly." Dean shakes Sam's shoulder, gently. "Sounds like it's right up our mutual alleys," he says, then, expression going steely, "And you owe me for denying my existence."  
  
"Ugh," Sam says, and goes to drop onto the couch.  
  
He closes his eyes, and tries not to think, just listens to Dean move around his kitchen, opening the fridge door, the clatter of beer bottles and the pop of the cap.  
  
"My fridge is yours," Sam says, benevolently, belatedly. He's not sure Dean hears him, but Dean seems slightly mollified when he comes to sit next to him on the couch, putting a cold bottle into his hands and turning on the TV.  
  
They watch a Mexican soap that Dean seems to be very familiar with, apprising Sam of the story even though he's even worse than Sam at Spanish.   
  
"Is this what you've been doing since I've been gone?" Sam asks suspiciously. "Do you usually sit around watching soap operas at four in the afternoon?"  
  
"It just happens to be on every day," Dean says. "I'm not in charge of what's on TV."  
  
Sam's gets settled and downs his beer and takes the next one off the coffee table. Dean, who can't hold a grudge against Sam to save his life, eventually explains the more intricate mafia plotline with obvious glee, and Sam feels the anxiety drain out of him a little for the first time since Dean showed up. Here, on the couch with his brother and away from the rest of the world, he feels tentatively better, better than normal even.  
  
When the doorbell rings two hours later, they're both sprawled back, watching as two women cry and clutch at one another on-screen.  
  
"You gonna get that or what?" asks Dean. He looks good, stretched back holding a beer against his thigh, and Sam lets himself look for a second, reluctant to get up from his place on the couch while their knees are pressed together like this. He thinks lazily that what he wants instead is to get his hands all over Dean, if Dean would let him.  
  
Instead, he forces himself away, throwing his pillow, which Dean catches one handed and shoves under his head with his eyes still glued to the screen. "Thanks," he says.  
  
"Dick."  
  
"Thanks for noticing," Dean says. "It's one of my best features."  
  
There's a knocking now, loud, and Sam goes and opens the door. He's actually surprised to find Brady on the other side.  
  
"Oh," he says. "Hey. Did I forget something at lunch?"  
  
Brady looks uncertain. He brushes his hair back with both hands and doesn't make eye contact. "I had to come by," he says. "I mean, I couldn't not come by."  
  
He looks nervous, worried, but Sam thinks something about his expression doesn't fit. It looks somehow rehearsed.  
  
"I figured we had to talk," Brady says.  
  
"Talk?" Sam hedges.  
  
Brady gives him a look like Sam's said something monumentally stupid. "Yes. Talk. As in, not ignore one another."  
  
"Oh. Have we been ignoring each other?"  
  
Brady purses his lips. "Sam, you know I care about you, and we've been together for almost a year—"  
  
Sam stares at him. "Together?"  
  
This stops Brady short. He says slowly, like it might help Sam understand, "Yes. Together. We've been sleeping together. And going on dates. Spending most of our time together. Since last year."  
  
Sam is uncertain hearing this news, although from Brady's disappointed expression he suspects he shouldn't be.   
  
"Brady," he tries. "I'm going to be honest here, man, and say that I've never thought about it."  
  
Brady blinks at him. "But I introduced you to my parents. We had brunch."  
  
Sam is at a loss. For the past year he's been trying to live the life he wants to live, going to school and making friends. Fitting in. He's never thought that what started as random hookups with a guy in his dorm hooking up could lead to anything big.  
  
"What do you think was going on?" Brady asks, and Sam feels guilty. Brady's always been such a good guy.  
  
A guy who has...feelings, apparently. If all this is true, then how he'd been getting sketched out by the way Brady'd been acting, that creeping feeling that something was off, how Brady had kind of moved in after Thanksgiving...It was possibly because Brady'd thought they were in a relationship.  
  
Sam looks at Brady now, who's frowning in the doorway, tall and smart and really nice, and thinks, _I'm so screwed up._  
  
"Sorry," is all he says out loud. "I really suck."  
  
Brady doesn't respond, and Sam tries to imagine them _dating_ as Brady apparently thought they were. He doesn't know what it means that he'd never even considered it, wondering for the first time what it would take for someone to be someone he truly felt close to.  
  
His only thought is of Dean. Their shared history, events that have made them see the world in the same colors. What he has with Brady is borderline healthy, something casual, normal, while what he and Dean have is a tangled mess of roots that go so deep, and he can't see anything coming even close  
  
Some of what he's thinking must show on his face, because Brady's face goes stormy.  
  
"You know, you could have told me about this guy before he just showed up," he says.  
  
Sam frowns. "Dude, I didn't know he was coming."   
  
Although Brady's expression sours, he's a nice guy. It's what drew Sam to him in the first place.  
  
"So are you coming tonight?" Brady says, offering the subject change like a laurel branch. "After the game? It would be cool to hang out."  
  
"Maybe," Sam says. He thinks about telling Brady the truth, that he actually has a date tonight. With a ghost, in the athletics shed.  
  
The tension breaks somewhat when Dean suddenly joins the conversation, yelling from the living room, "Is the school mascot going to be there?"  
  
"Of course the mascot's going to be there, it's after the game," Brady answers loudly, and then lowers his voice. "Sam, listen to me. I may not know this Dean guy well, but he comes off as kind of...weird."  
  
"Dean? Yeah, that's an accurate summation."  
  
"All I'm saying is, he doesn't seem good for you."  
  
"Not good for me? Dude, he's my—" Sam catches himself, cutting off a laugh at the idea as he remembers that he lied. It's not Brady's fault he doesn't know. "I mean, I've known him forever. He's part of who I am."  
  
"Fine," Brady says, uncharitably. "Maybe I'll see you."  
  
He turns and leaves without waiting for a response, and Sam closes the door behind him. He wanders to the living room, where Dean is sitting where he left him but looking away from the screen.  
  
"Shut up," Sam says, but with little heat. He collapses back on the couch.  
  
Dean shakes his head. "You're kind of an asshole, dude."  
  
"Am not."  
  
Dean flips off the TV and says with uncharacteristic concern, "I mean, just...you know. Cut the guy a break. He's in love with _you_ of all people."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"It's just," Dean says, mildly. "I just feel for the guy, is all."  
  
"Well, anyway," Sam says. "He's been useful. You heard him, that mascot's going to be there."  
  
Dean's face breaks out into a grin. "Looks like we have to go to that party after all."  
  
"I know," Sam says, then mutters, "That's what I'm worried about."  
  
"Dude, what's your problem?" Dean sneers. "Worried someone's going to find out we're related."  
  
Sam doesn't answer. "No, I'm saying if the tree costume's at the party, there's obviously going to be someone in the suit. We should wait until later, when there less people are going to be around."  
  
"But who knows where this new kid's going to keep it? I say we waste it tonight. It's our best option."  
  
Sam thinks about it, then points out, "Remember we're going to have to get the kid out of the suit. Seeing as he'll be wearing it."  
  
"Oh," Dean says.  
  
"Right. Oh," Sam says. "Now shut up and let me watch this."  
  
And later, that night, after two more hours of soap operas and then Chinese delivery, Sam goes to change before leaving. He spots the shirt Dean threw at him earlier, off his own chest that morning, and picks it up from where it's lying crumpled on his dresser top, feeling creepy.  
  
But he ignores that and pulls it over his head. The shirt is soft and thin with years of stretching over Dean's shoulders, smoothing down Dean's back. Normal brothers give each other hand-me-downs, he tells himself.  
  
"Come on, let's go burn a tree," Dean says when Sam emerges.  
  
"I call shotgun."  
  
"Duh."


	3. Chapter 3

If there's one thing to be said for Dean, it's that he's never had a problem fitting in.  
  
"Two kegs in the corner, the harder stuff on the counter," he yells to Sam over the music, cataloging the scene the moment they arrive at the party. "Bunch of hot co-eds. This is the life, Sammy."  
  
Sam only just stops himself from telling Dean that if he wants college parties, he can just stay in Palo Alto.  
  
"Get me a beer, would you?" Dean yells, and then immediately strikes up a conversation with a girl leaning against the wall next to them.  
  
As he pushes through the crowd of people, Sam's never felt more out of place around his fellow students. He keeps an eye out for a guy dressed as a tree, wishing that instead he and Dean were just here to get drunk. It's been a long time since he's been able to let himself go around Dean. Not when he came to Stanford with just his duffle bag and road dirt under his nails, not when he was the only kid without parents or guardians moving him into his dorm. This is his old life, invading his new one. He spent his senior year of high school trying to get away, and then his freshman year of college trying to feel good about his decision.  
  
But they're here to find a potential victim before he's murdered. He does another survey of the kitchen and living room as he pushes back through the crowd with a red cup in each hand. Everyone seems to be wearing school colors, guys and girls talking loudly over the music with streaks of red paint on their faces, no tree in sight.  
  
When he reaches Dean again he sees that he's talking to a big guy in a football jersey, the letter S large on his chest.  
  
"Here, I can show you," Dean's saying, and pops the top off a beer with his lighter. He hands the lighter to the guy. "Ok, your turn."  
  
"Like this?" It takes a few tries, but the guy manages to pop the top.  
  
"Oh hey, by the way," Dean says to the football player, taking the beer from Sam. "I've heard the team's really great. And the tree mascot is hilarious. You don't happen to have seen it at the party, have you?"  
  
"Uh," the guy says, handing back the lighter. "I think so?"  
  
Dean throws an arm around Sam's shoulders. "It's just, Sammy here would love a picture."  
  
Sam stares at Dean, and then looks back to the football guy. "Yeah," he says. "I'm a...big fan. I guess."  
  
"Ok," the guy says. "Yeah, Fred's around here somewhere."  
  
He wanders off.  
  
"Thanks, Dean," Sam says. "An autograph from my favorite tree. That's so considerate of you."  
  
"It's no problem," Dean smirks. He goes to lean casually against the wall but recoils as soon as his shoulder touches the wallpaper.  
  
"You ok?" Sam's instantly on guard, trying to figure out how the wall's connected to Larson.  
  
Dean touches the wall gingerly with his fingertips, though, and then shakes his head. "The wall's entirely sticky. Something seriously wrong happened here."  
  
"That your professional hunter opinion?" asks Sam.  
  
"Yes, it is."  
  
"Maybe someone threw up on it."  
  
"Ew, fuck you Sam."  
  
"What? I didn't do it!"  
  
Dean shudders. "I need another drink."  
  
Sam idles by the sticky spot, watching Dean shuffle around girls in short skirts. There's a guy in the corner tuning a guitar while some other people pass out cupcakes. Sam gets a creeping feeling on the back of his neck, and when he turns, he sees Brady's standing by the door. He catches Sam's eye, nodding hesitantly.  
  
Brady's looking down at his phone while the new Britney Spears blasts over speakers when Sam comes close.  
  
"How's it going?" Sam yells and Brady looks up with a smile that's almost bashful.  
  
"Good," Brady yells back. "What's up?"  
  
"Just hanging out," Sam lies. He may have a beer in one hand, but he also has a canister of salt in his pocket and a travel-sized squirt bottle of lighter fluid in his pants. But Brady doesn't need to know that. "Where's everyone else?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Brady says. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. I came here to apologize."  
  
"Apologize?"  
  
"For earlier, I mean. Laying that all on you. I see now that we've had really different expectations, I should have talked to you before blowing up like that."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "It's not you, man. I've had kind of a weird history with relationships—" His first kiss had been with Amy Pond, monster, and his first and only love, his brother. "—so that totally went over my head."  
  
"Yeah?" Brady looks relieved, and Sam grins at him.  
  
"Yeah," he says, and feels bad when he catches himself feeling relieved for different reasons, glad to be off the hook. He may not have huge romantic feelings for Brady, but Brady's one of Sam's first friends here. One of his best friends. Even if things are weird right now, he's always been a solid guy, and Sam's been a jerk about this.  
  
Then Brady says, inexplicably, "You know, I've done a lot of thinking over the past few weeks, and some circumstances have changed. For the better," he says, and then wets his lips. "But very big things."  
  
"Brady?" Sam prompts. He wonders if this is a breakup speech of some kind.   
  
"I just wanted to let you know that you're important to me," Brady says, and gives Sam a look so intense that Sam takes a half step back, stumbling over someone's abandoned shoe. He wonders suddenly if this is going the other way, if Brady is going to try to kiss him in front of all these people, in front of Dean.   
  
"You're important to me, too," Sam says carefully. "You're a good friend, man."  
  
"I'd like to keep you in my life," Brady agrees, and then, to Sam's confusion, "There's a lot I still have to do with you."  
  
"Right," Sam says.  
  
Then Brady turns to go, putting his hand on the doorknob.  
  
"You're heading out?" Sam asks.  
  
When Brady turns back, he looks like someone other than himself for a second, more self-assured, maybe. His blue eyes seem darker in the low light, but when Sam blinks the impression is gone and he shakes his head. He's been seeing things lately.  
  
"Yes," Brady says, stroking something in his pocket. "I need to go make a call."  
  
"Is that a bowl?" Sam asks.  
  
"No." Then he disappears out the door, leaving Sam alone next to the couple making out on the stairs. Sam shakes his head and slowly steps around people to get back to Dean.  
  
"So, Sam here," Dean's says to Jennifer and a girl in a cheerleader uniform. "Used to be totally afraid of the dark. Scary stories and all that. Totally freaked out."  
  
It's just like Dean to flirt with girls at Sam's expense. Sam is unimpressed.   
  
"Once he even cried," Dean tells them.  
  
"Hey!" Sam says. "Did not!"  
  
Dean puts his hands up. "I'm just saying, man. I saw tears in your eyes—"  
  
"Dean, shut up," Sam moans, and tells the girls, "He's lying."  
  
"You knew each other when you were that young?" Jennifer asks. "I had no idea."  
  
This dampens the mood. "Yep," Dean says shortly.  
  
Sam jumps in. "We've known each other forever," he tells them, and the girls laugh. He carefully avoids Dean's eye.  
  
"We go all the way back," Dean confirms.   
  
"Sam is a great guy," Jennifer says.  
  
Dean nods. "Yeah, he's a smart kid." He thumps Sam hard on the chest, too hard. "A real heart of gold."  
  
"You guys are too cute," she says, and says, tone wistful, "I wish my ex-boyfriend and I were as close as you two are. I mean, were. Ah, sorry."  
  
Dean freezes by his side. It's an imperceptible moment that only Sam catches. You wouldn't know they were in a crowded room, the way it feels like they're alone now, the noise dying out as Sam thinks clearly that this is the time. The time it all goes to hell.   
  
The cheerleader, looking at them like this is the most romantic story, asks Dean, "How long were you together, if you don't mind my asking?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says, turning to Sam. "How long were we together, can you remember?"  
  
Sam's face is hot. "Dean," he says.   
  
"Yes, Sam?" His voice has taken on a meaner edge.   
  
"Dean," Sam says again, and jerks his head to the back door. "Let's talk."  
  
"I'm having such a good conversation, though," he says. When Sam begins walking away, Dean turns back to wink at the cheerleader. "To be continued," he promises, before Sam grabs him by the back of the jacket.  
  
As Dean follows him through the sea of people, Sam wishes he was any one of them right now, instead of a loser kid from nowhere who has to explain to his brother why everyone thinks they're involved.  
  
"Outside," he says, and shoves Dean out the back sliding glass door.  
  
Dean goes easily, stepping lightly into the dark backyard. "You like taking control, huh? Is that how you liked it when we were, you know—"  
  
"Dean, don't," Sam says. His voice sounds weak in the chill air, pleading. "Just shut the fuck up about it. You don't know what you're talking about."  
  
There are a few people looking at their phones a ways away and a guy peeing against the fence by the far bushes. But other than that, it's just him and Dean alone with Sam's big lie.  
  
"Feel free to let me know, any time," Dean laughs, crossing his arms across his chest and leaning back against the stucco wall. Sam is glad he can't quite make out the look in Dean's eyes. It's bad enough he knows he put it there.  
  
"Dean. Just stop, ok?" he says. "Stop acting like this is a..."  
  
"Like it's a what?"  
  
"Like it's a joke," Sam glares.  
  
Dean sounds suddenly outraged. "If you hadn't noticed, Sam, it is a joke. Or is there a reason that everyone thinks we're _boyfriends_?"  
  
Sam cringes. It sounds even worse when Dean says it that way.   
  
"Oh sorry, did I hurt your feelings?"  
  
Sam knows it's his fault, he won't deny it. But it's Dean's fault for showing up without so much as a word, landing them here in the backyard of someone else's house. Sam's secret is spilled out between them in the dark, visible if Dean looks for it, and he feels suddenly very scared.  
  
"You know what?" Sam says, hearing a snarl in his voice. He wonders if he's about to say something unforgivable. "Why are you even here, Dean? I don't know why you drove a thousand miles—"  
  
"Dude, I _told_ you why I was here!" Dean shouts it, but his tone sounds helpless, almost. "What part of 'I'm here on a hunt' doesn't mean 'I am here on a hunt'?"  
  
That stings. Up until now, Sam realizes, he's held on to the hope — a tiny, embarrassing hope — that Dean was in some way lying to him, lying to himself. That even though he'd come to Stanford to stop what could turn into a string of murders, maybe he was happy that it brought him close enough to see Sam. He'd seemed happy.  
  
Now, Sam thinks, things are ruined.  
  
"There were plenty of other hunts," he yells back, but it's like he's hearing his voice from a distance. "You're not even supposed to be here. This is my life, you can't just come in an act like you belong in it."  
  
Dean sounds freaked when he says, "Like hell I can't." When two people come outside for a smoke, Dean lowers his voice. "You can't say that. We belong together."  
  
Sam takes a step away. "You're so full of shit. Once you're done here, you're just going to pick up and leave. That's what you said. You can't have it both ways."  
  
"What the hell are you talking about? You don't think it was hard for me, too?" He's surprised when Dean rolls his eyes, still acting like it's some big joke. "News flash, Sam. You're not the victim here. You're the hot-headed kid who decided what he wanted to do was leave. And I'm having a hard time with it, but I've supported you. Never stopped you from going, never told you to come home." Dean leans back, head to the wall of the house. "I've been giving you space. Then, I hear someone's dead, at the college that _you go to_. No fucking way I'm going to let that happen to you, too. No fucking way, Sam."  
  
"Dean—"  
  
Dean rubs at his mouth, then steps into Sam's space. "I'll never let anything happen to you, Sammy," he says. "Nothing."  
  
For a crazy moment Sam thinks he's going to do something...something he can't take back. But instead Dean asks, "Well?"  
  
"Well what?" Sam manages.  
  
Dean makes an incomprehensible gesture with his arm. "Well, you going to just stand there gaping like a fish or you going to say something?"  
  
Dean has shoved Sam out of the way of claws and falling timber, a hundred monsters, and once broke into a hospital in the middle of the night to sleep in a chair next to the bed just so he'd be there when Sam woke up. Sam wonders how he'd thought anything had changed.   
  
Dean may be a total jerk half the time, but Sam sees it now. That Dean came for him — not to spend time with Sam, because that's not what he thinks Sam wants, but he came to _protect_ him.  
  
"God I hate you sometimes," Sam says under his breath, and then grabs Dean into a fierce hug. This is his brother. His brother, the idiot. The idiot who is still taking care of him the only way he thinks Sam will allow.  
  
Dean returns the hug instantly, sliding his arms around Sam, fingers pressing into his back. "Yeah," he says, his voice hoarse. He feels solid and warm pressed up against Sam like this, his breath hot against Sam's neck. "Right back at you."  
  
Touching Dean is an addiction Sam thought time and distance had effectively broken. But, once an addict, he thinks with a wry sort of resignation. He's taken back to long summers spent grappling out behind old motels, practicing judo-style moves that may one day serve to save their lives. Sam's hands grasping at Dean's belt. Dean's thighs around his neck. But never this. He's never allowed himself to touch Dean like this, not for seconds that turn to a minute. It's a quiet moment that feels far from the crash of conversation indoors.  
  
"Sam?" Dean says, like it's a question.  
  
"What?" Sam asks, and dares to turn his face an inch, until Dean's cheek is rough under his mouth. He hopes maybe Dean won't notice.   
  
Then Dean says, "I think we have company," and Sam jumps away.  
  
He wheels around, expecting to see one of his school friends has caught him in the act of surreptitious gay hugging and/or ostensibly cheating on Brady, but Dean grabs his arm, and whispers, "Dude, stop freaking out. How off your game are you?" And gives an exaggerate jerk of his chin toward the bushes at the edge of the yard. Sam looks.  
  
The bushes are rustling.  
  
Dean sends him a look like he can't believe what an idiot Sam is, and gives a directive, pointing at the bushes with two fingers. Sam nods and reaches for the salt canister in his jacket. It's his roommate's. He makes a mental note to replace it.  
  
The noise of each of their footfalls is loud as they creep across the grass, louder than Sam's ragged breath. Dean has his flashlight trained on the bushes, which shake violently, intermittently, shadows stretching out huge around them in the light of the beam.  
  
Sam grips the salt canister, ready to let it fly at the first glimpse of anything remotely ghostly. He wonders if it's occurred to Dean yet that if Larson's spirit is out here rather than lying dormant in the costume as they'd suspected, then the Fred kid they were looking for is probably already dead.  
  
At Dean's nod, Sam leaps into the bush, flinging the salt in a wide arc.  
  
An otherworldly shriek rips through the night air.  
  
In fact, two otherworldly shrieks, Sam notices, as he tries to free himself from the branches he landed in, and not in a spirit-screaming-in-agony-before-it-disa

ppears kind of way. It's more like—

Dean shoves in next to him, parting the bushes.

On a dirt patch between the plants, the goofy tree mascot is sitting next to a girl in a college sweater. And the tree is holding a joint.

"Oh," Sam says.

"What the hell?" the mascot who must be Fred says, his face just visible through a cutout circle between the tree's painted eyes. He squints against the light of the flashlight.

"You're in trouble, kid," Dean says, gruffly, and Fred struggles to his feet awkwardly due to the costume's restrictive armholes.

"Run, Maria!" he shouts, giving her a shove. "Save yourself!"

Maria takes off at a sprint, jumping the bushes easily and almost knocking Sam over in the process. She's gone around the side of the house in seconds.

They turn back to Fred, who's staring at them, wide eyed. "I swear this isn't what it looks like," he babbles, stubbing out the joint on a rock. "Please don't arrest me. It's just oregano."

"Sure," Dean says, and then, gesturing with his flashlight, "Take it off."

Fred pauses. "Excuse me?"

"Campus police. Take it off," Dean repeats slowly. "Just the costume. You can keep your chones on."

"Wait. Why do you want the—"

"You're no longer fit to wear it, ok? Your recent behavior's made you a poor example for your fellow nerds, what with the oregano smoking and flirting with chicks." He jerks his thumb at Sam. "This kid here's the new mascot. You don't see him flirting with chicks, do you?"

"What?" Sam says.

"What?" Fred asks. "But I need the extra credit—"

But he throws up his hands again when Dean barks, "I said strip!"

"All right, all right." Fred pulls the tree costume off with a lot of twisting and grunting. "Here," he finally says, and shoves it against Sam's chest as he passes. "Enjoy. That thing's too sweaty anyway."

He scampers away, sending them a last, dark look before ducking inside.

Sam grins as they watch him go. "Wow, Dean."

"Shut up, Sam." Dean looks around the dark backyard. "So question is, why's Fred still alive?"

"Well, Larson already had his kill for the year, right? And it isn't the night of the Big Game."

Dean nods. "Makes sense."

"We gonna burn it here?"

"Might as well."

Sam shrugs. "Cool."

He drops the costume to the grass, where it sits in a pathetic lump of papier mache and felt. He reaches into his pants and pulls out the lighter fluid, and squirts it. Then, he pours some salt on top, and takes a step back.

"Light her up?" Dean asks at Sam's nod. He pauses with the lighter in his palm.

"What's the holdup?"

"You wanna do it?" Dean asks. "Not every day you can say you burned a school symbol."

Sam is unreasonably touched.

"Thanks," he says, smiling even though Dean probably can't see his face. "And Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"I'm really glad you're here."

"Oh, Jesus," Dean mutters, but Sam feels fingers on elbow a moment later, Dean touching him lightly at the back of the arm.

Which is when the grass crunches beneath Sam's shoes. He looks down to see each blade has been frosted, gleaming an icy blue in the moonlight, and when he opens his mouth to say something, the air is frozen and harsh on his lungs. It all comes back to him. The temperature plummeting, the feeling of dread.

"Uh, Dean?" His bangs whip against his face at a sudden breeze.

"Unexpected frost?" Dean says hopefully, raising his flashlight to shine it at the still bushes and then back to the mascot costume. "I think not."

"Dean," Sam says, voice rising. "Light it!"

"Eat fire," Dean yells, flipping his lighter open and trying to ignite it.

"Dude, come on!" Sam says again, as the temperature takes another dip.

Dean flicks the lighter frantically, a note of panic creeping into his voice. "I'm trying!"

All at once, Sam realizes that they might be in over their heads. He's used to Dad's gruff instructions, Dad shouting at Sam to get out of the way, shouting for Dean to light the motherfucker's bones. He's used to standing with Dean over the crackling remains of whatever son of a bitch John has set his sight on, grinning at Dean over the flames until Dad joined them. Hunts were never easy, but they've always made it out alive. He'd expected this one to be easy, an in-and-out operation, no bruises.

Doesn't go down that way this time. Dean's flicking the lighter one second and flying through the air another.

"Dean!"

Sam sees him land in the bushes with a quiet crash, but he's too busy feeling blindly for the lighter in the grass to see if Dean's still conscious. Moments later, he has the brief impression of icy hands snaking around his throat, and then he's thrown back against the fence. His head hits wood.

He blacks out for what must be only seconds and refocuses and finds himself looking directly into the bloody eyes of Larson's spirit.

He tries to shout, but Larson's hand flies up to grip his throat. His fingers drag like rope against Sam's skin, splintering into his throat, a memory of the rope Larson used to hang himself. The sharp pain in Sam's lungs grows and grows as he tries to draw in a breath.

"What are you doing?" Larson's spirit rasps, Sam's nose filling with an overwhelming stench of blood and decay.

He tries to struggle free but can't get leverage. His toes only just drag the grass. When he tries to say Dean's name he can only manage a wheeze of breath.

"I tried to be good," the spirit says, in a voice that's like wind whistling in the night. "I tried."

The fence's rough wood is scraping up Sam's shoulder blades, and his thoughts are going swimmy, his vision going splotchy. Larson's face shimmers once out of existence and then reappears, more solid this time. A dribble of blood seeps from the crack of his purple mouth as he moans, "I'm a failure. I'm not good enough."

Sam wonders distantly if this is how he's going to die, here in this backyard. He and Dean have only just been reunited.

As his vision flickers, he thinks that it's not good enough. They haven't had enough time.

And then he's dropped painfully to the ground, his knees jarring.

"Got it with the barbecue iron," Dean says, a black figure towering over him.

Sam is on his back, the endless stars spinning in a lazy circle overhead.

"Earth to Sam," Dean says.

Sam gets to his elbows in the cold grass. "Gotta find the lighter," he coughs, feeling around for it. His fingers sting with small cuts, and ice crunches under his knees.

"Bingo!" Dean says a ways away, just as Larson reappears next to him. "Sam!"

He tosses the lighter and Sam catches it mid-air, rolling from his knees to where the tree costume is slumped in the darkness. He flicks the lighter open with shaking fingers and manages a flame that's impossibly small.

"Sam!" Dean bellows. "Do it! Do it now!"

Sam puts the flame to fabric gently, and the fire roars into life, catching quick.

The spirit shrieks and Sam's nearly blinded by the otherworldly light. He rolls away, throwing an arm over his face. And when the noise dies down he realizes he's curled up in a ball beside the merrily burning flames, the lighter digging into his palm.

"You done yet?" Dean asks next to him. Sam unfolds, and Dean leans back on his elbows, the fire reflecting off his eyes and his bright smile.

"Shut up," Sam says, pocketing the lighter, and sitting up on his knees in the melting grass. He stares into the flames. They did this, he thinks hazily.

"Taken down by a cheerleader," Dean mutters.

Sam frowns at him. "You do know what a mascot is, right? And for your information, being a cheerleader actually takes a lot of training and dedication. They could probably kick your ass."

Dean ignores him and tosses a stick into the flames. "Embarrassing," he says.

They sit there for what feels like a long while, decompressing, until there's a noise from the back door opening followed by the sound of two people laughing.

Dean jumps to his feet and offers Sam an arm up. Sam takes it, even though he's sore all over.

"Let's get the fuck out of here before they notice us."

"Too late," Sam says. He's surprised they managed the whole fight without anyone seeing.

The guys are looking blearily from the fire back to Sam and Dean. Sam hopes they're too drunk to make sense of what they're seeing.

"Dude, I didn't know there was a bonfire!" says one of the guys.

"Or— wait, there's not a bonfire. Is that supposed to be burning?"

"What are you guys doing?" the first calls to them.

Sam tries to come up with a good answer.

"Roasting marshmallows?" Dean tries.

"Hey, is that the mascot outfit?"

" _Was_ the mascot outfit," Dean says, backing away.

Sam sighs. "He's only joking."

"Who the hell are you? You don't go to Stanford, do you?"

Dean doesn't make it any better when he shrugs and says, unconvincingly, "What? I totally go here."

"He's wearing blue," Sam points out. "That's right, you caught us. We're from Berkeley."

His excuse works, although why Berkeley kids would be trying to sabotage Stanford football a week after the Big Game, he does not know. One thing he does know, however, is that it's time to get out of there.

"Dean! Come on!" He takes off at a sprint, ducking down the side of the house, hoping Maria had the right idea.

The guys race after them, paying no notice to the frozen grass, shouting, "Hey! Berkeley kids!"

Sam jumps the side gate and hears Dean do the same a second later. There are muffled shouts as the guys try to open the latch, but then Sam and Dean are racing across the driveway, knocking into a group of people playing beer pong on the front lawn.

The guys shout in surprise and jump away as Sam shoves past. Red cups splash on the grass unnoticed as the crowd roars to life.

"Hey! What the hell?"

"Get ‘em!" one of the guys chasing them yells. "Cal kids!"

Thankfully Dean had parked right out front. Sam swings into the passenger side and is still yanking the door shut when Dean revs the engine, screeching away from the curb.

"Go bears!" Sam shouts out the window, pumping his fist to the smell of burning rubber as they zip past the angry mob. Dean floors it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five short minutes later, Dean swerves up to the curb outside of the apartment. Sam tumbles out of the car, and makes it halfway up the steps before even thinking about it, exhilaration beating in his chest.

He'd forgotten this part. The getaway. Forced himself to forget all the good things about the job. Years of knees knocking the back of the passenger side, stretching out winded and elated in the space that was growing rapidly too small. Wheels spinning, engine gunning, and gravel spraying out behind them as the car bumps out of the forest, out of the graveyard, on their way back to the motel or clear out of town.

Dean jogs up the stairs after him and comes to lean against the door jam, face pinked with victory, a flush on his neck when Sam jostles into him. The smell of smoke is familiar in his hair, as it is in Sam's. Twin flames, Sam thinks, as he jerks keys from his pocket.

"Whoo," Dean breathes once they're inside, slapping his knee.

Sam says, "Talk about making like a tree," and Dean laughs too hard at the bad joke. Sam leans back against the door to catch his breath, trying to remember the last time he'd heard an actual laugh come from his brother. "I'm surprised we didn't get pulled over driving like that."

"Yeah, imagine explaining your face to the cops."

"Excuse me?"

"There's smoke—" Dean says, looking Sam's face over and wiping at his own face to indicate. "Like half your face is covered in it."

Sam rubs at his cheek with his jacket for a minute, aware of Dean watching, then tips his chin up for Dean to see. "All good?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "You look good, Sam."

"Huh?" Sam stops at the tone, sleeve paused at his cheek.

Dean steps toward him. "In my shirt. You think I didn't notice?"

Sam looks down at his chest guiltily, and rubs a hand down the shirt front. "It was just there on my dresser."

He's surprised when Dean smooths a hand over his shoulder, but doesn't stop him. He feels a shiver build on the back of his arms, and shakes with it when Dean slides the hand down to grip Sam's bicep tight.

Dean has a guarded look in his eyes, a look that tells Sam he's trying to sneak something by him. But Dean can't pull anything without him knowing. Sam hesitates, swallows, before gently flexing, letting Dean feel his arm work.

Deans breathes out, and Sam's not sure what's happening here. One minute they're on a post-hunt high, and the next they're here, in this moment that's so tense it feels like it could snap.

Dean seems to be waiting, but Sam can't any longer. He moves forward until they're toe to toe, and ducks his head, burying his face in Dean's neck.

"Oh," Dean says, a small sound as Sam inhales deeply.

There it is, a familiar something under the strong smell of fire. It's a scent that makes Sam's toes curl, that sends a hot shock right through him at the memory of _Dean_. It's a woody cinnamon of the deodorant Dean's been buying since he was sixteen, a note of orange against the warmth of his skin.

A long shudder seems to roll through Dean, and Sam is emboldened by it, opening his mouth against the hot skin of Dean's throat.

Then Dean's pulls him off by the back of his jacket and pressing him back until Sam hits the door frame. He half-expects to be punched, wouldn't blame Dean at all for it. There's an uncertain crook to Dean's mouth an inch from Sam's own that makes him think it could go either way.

Then Dean wets his lips and Sam watches from up close. Though they've never been here before, he feels a curl of anticipation in his stomach. He knows what's going to happen.

Both of them simultaneously go for the face grab.

It...doesn't go well. Sam pulls his hands back instantly, feeling caught in the act like he's been burned. Dean laughs uncomfortably and steps away.

Before Dean can escape completely, Sam snaps out a hand, catching him by the shoulder. One wrong move, he thinks. One second of self-reflection, and they could be ruined.

Dean stares at him, an unreadable look, and Sam can only stand there with his fingers digging into Dean's shoulder for so long. He feels stupid about this, trying not to think about the greater context to this, of how he's hidden his desire from the light of day forever and it's somehow come to this moment. He tries to focus just on the feeling of Dean's heart beating through his skin, thinking it's now or never.

He closes his eyes like he's making a wish, and presses his mouth to Dean's blindly, hard and quick.

"Sam—" Dean starts, and his dumbfounded expression leaves Sam feeling cautiously optimistic.

Sam cuts him off. "I gotta show you how it's done?" he asks with bravado he doesn't feel.

Dean's eyes widen, his expression incredulous. "Fuck you, Sam," he says, and drags Sam down for an instant replay.

Sam swoons at the softness of Dean's mouth under his own, and is surprised by the tenderness of Dean's hands rubbing up his ribs. He scrapes his hand back through Dean's short hair, and Dean kisses him until he can't think straight. They're the worst, he thinks. He and Dean are always pulling some shit that's going to get them in trouble later.

Then Dean turns his face away, breathing harshly on Sam's ear.

"Please," Sam says, wondering if this is what it feels like to go crazy.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Dean asks, and Sam's not sure what he's asking either, but he needs so badly for Dean to say yes.

He stares at Dean's mouth until Dean shakes his head, deciding on something.

"Ok, Sam," Dean says, sounding like he's instead saying, _you asked for it_ , and walks Sam backward into the living room, masterfully avoiding the coffee table and pulling Sam next to him on the couch where all his stuff is piled. The way Dean looks determined is heartbreakingly familiar, like he's got it in his head to do this thing, and by god he's going to try his best.

He takes his time now, putting a hand to Sam's face and leaning in slowly for another kiss. He stops just short of Sam's mouth though, at a loud sound, something like a buzz. It takes a long couple seconds for Sam to realize the noise is a cell phone ringing, clattering against the floor.

"Tell me that's a good kind of vibration," Sam says, and laughs kind of hysterically.

Dean gives him a look. "Who even are you?" he says, before leaning down to fish the phone out from where it's fallen under the couch.

As he watches Dean's t-shirt ride up, Sam has a sudden, flash of panic. He realizes who must be calling.

He shakes his head, reaching out. "Just ignore it."

Dean holds the phone out of reach and flips it open to check the number. "You've got to be kidding me," he says under his breath. He shoves at Sam's knee, pressed up against his. "Sam, get off me."

"Dad?" Sam asks.

Dean raises his eyebrows at him in answer, pointedly waiting until Sam moves to sit gingerly at the farthest end of the couch, face burning, and only then does Dean hit _talk_.

"Yeah," he says into the phone, and clears his throat. "Yes, sir."

If he holds his breath, Sam can hear their dad's reply grumbling out of the earpiece. He feels sick again, this time worse than before as the real horror of the situation threatens to become clear if he lets himself think about what they've just done.

"Boise," Dean confirms over the phone.

Looking at his brother at the other end of the couch, posture rigid and knuckles white where his fingers are curled around the phone, suddenly Sam wants nothing more than for things to be normal. Their kind of normal. He wants Dean seated next to him at a table in some non-descript diner in some other state, their dad across from them, telling them where they're going to go, what he's going to teach them to do, who they're going to save.

 _Home_ , some nebulous non-place. Just Sam and Dean, and their dad and road tales of glory. Except it's a universe not far from this one, where the tiles fell out differently so that Sam had never wanted to leave and had never broken any hearts.

Dean says into the phone now, "I can make it, it's no problem."

And when he hangs up, he and Sam sit there and sit there. Dean starts peeling the label off a beer bottle from earlier, and Sam rubs the palm of his right hand relentlessly over his thigh, wondering what in the entire world he could say or do to make this right.

But as soon as he goes to try, Dean slaps a hand over his mouth. When Sam turns to him, wide-eyed, Dean shakes his head.

"Don't," he says.

Sam's never had any illusions, but he wishes he did now. He wants to press out the worry lines from Dean's face and stop the nervous jiggle of his knee. _Stay,_ he wants to say.

Instead, he reaches down and unzips his jeans.

"Sam—" Dean says, sounding completely scandalized.

Sam feels immediately better. If there's one thing that feels normal, it's fucking with Dean. In the non-sexual way, at least.

He raises his eyebrows back at Dean, perversely glad Dean's hand is still over his mouth and he can't speak. His hand hovers over the V of his open jeans, and he's not sure what he's going to do now.

When Dean makes no move to stop him, Sam tips his head back on the couch and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't need to have his eyes open to know his brother's watching, and not being able to see Dean gives him a terrible courage.

 _This is so fucked up_ , Dean might whisper as he eases closer, as Sam slips his hand into his jeans and slowly begin to touch himself through his boxer briefs. _This is so fucked up._

The warm puff of Dean's close breath makes him feel daring, and he spreads his knees to give himself room, allowing himself a shiver of anticipation when he runs his hand down the whole line of his dick and squeezes.

He jolts when a finger presses his lips, and it's like Dean's shushing him, swearing him to secrecy, never tell a soul. For one wild moment, Sam thinks maybe his roommate has chosen this moment to come back to the apartment after his long absence, but then Dean forces the finger in between his lips and Sam relaxes, wetting Dean's finger with his tongue while he palms himself, a heat warming his entire body.

When Dean's other hand joins his, the rough tips of Dean's fingers are tentative, brushing Sam's on the way to palming him through the thin cotton. Sam's dick swells into it, and he curses around the finger between his teeth.

Wordlessly, Dean presses Sam onto his back, kneeling between Sam's legs, hovering over him. Sam wonders if Dean's ever fucked a guy, wonders if he's going to try and fuck Sam like a girl. He wonders what kind of person does that to their own brother, and then the thoughts go out the window as Dean kisses him there, his elbows sunk into the cushions on either side of Sam's head. It's good. Sam rakes under his t-shirt, up his back, with blunt nails and feels Dean shudder.

One of Dean's wide hands grips him hard by the back of his thigh, and he yanks Sam's briefs down with the other so he can jack Sam with nothing in the way, Sam's dick slipping in the circle of his fist for the first time.

"This ain't a one-man show," Dean grunts above him after he's driven Sam halfway to desperation, and his face goes red when Sam looks at him. Dean's face has always shown too much, given him away, and for some reason it's this uncertainty there that gets Sam harder than anything, makes him sure he and Dean are on the same page.

"Fine," Sam says, shoving his hand down under the waistband of Dean's boxers and taking him in hand. He smirks when Dean makes a strangled noise.

Dean picks up the rhythm quickly, though, wiping the smirk off Sam's face. "Just lying back, huh?" he says in Sam's ear, rutting against Sam's hand, his stomach. "Letting me take care of you?" And the thought is so wrong Sam almost comes in Dean's fist right then.

"Old habits die hard," he gasps, and Dean groans.

"That's not funny, dude."

 _I know_ , Sam thinks.

And a couple minutes later, when Sam's lying winded on his back with his shirt rucked up, he wonders which of them is going to freak out the most. His thighs are sore from where Dean had sunk his fingers in, and he has Dean's come smeared over the inseam of his jeans. He's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean yawns when he sits up, his hair sticking out at wrong angles. His mouth is very red, Sam notes, and imagines kissing him again to start things all over again. Instead, he watches Dean tuck himself back into his jeans, and then darts his eyes away when Dean catches him.

"When are you going?" he asks.

There's no question of whether he's going to go. Sam knows how it is.

"Jeez, Sammy. Just bang ‘em and leave ‘em, is that the way you play it?" Dean tries to make it light hearted, but he's not convincing anyone.

"No," Sam says. He sits up too quickly and then pushes the heel of his hand to his temple, waiting out the head rush.

"So, uh, I gotta go," Dean says. "Nowish."

Sam looks up, in time to catch Dean's wince.

Dean gestures randomly. "If I'm gonna get to Boise to meet dad, I mean. Before this hunt goes down. Sort of time pressured. Otherwise, I'd—"

"Dean," Sam says. "Spare me the speech."

He hunches in on himself. Neither of them are good at saying anything. Sam feels with absolute conviction that they should reserve their mouths for blowjobs alone.

His dick jerks in his pants at the thought, and he rushes to do up the button, fumbling the zipper.

"You've only gotten dressed five thousand times," Dean tells him, watching Sam try to get himself together.

"Shut up," he says, wishing Dean would get it over with and just leave, so Sam can crawl into bed and stay there.

When he looks, Dean's giving him a resigned sort of smile. "You're really not coming, huh?"

Sam sets his jaw, and stands up. He's taller than Dean. He knows Dean already knows his answer, just as he knows what Dean's thinking, that Sam can do good out there.

But Sam's also doing good here. Sam shakes his head, slowly. He can't go with him. It's like that night all over again, except painful in a different way, like messing with a wound that's trying to heal. _Why hadn't Dean tried to stop him back then?_ Sam wonders again. It's why Dean isn't going to stop him now.

Then the answer comes to him. It's like light has been shed across everything, why Dean let Sam walk away and won't try to drag him back.

Dean's _proud_ of him. He can see it on Dean's face, the longer he looks at him, how Dean's respecting his decision. And when Dean nods and says, "Ok," Sam feels a hot sort of sensation build up behind his eyes.

"Truth or Dare," he says, taking a deep breath, decided.

Dean gives him a searching look. "Aren't we too old for this shit?"

"I'm serious," Sam says impatiently. "Truth or dare?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine," he says. "Dare."

Sam thinks about his younger self, how he's always had a list of embarrassing ways to get back at Dean. He thinks about what he has to ask now, and knows his younger self wouldn't understand.

"I dare you to call me," he says, because it's been a year of checking his missed calls, hoping it's Dean. He realizes he wants it more than anything. "I dare you to call when you can admit it."

"Admit what?"

Sam fixes Dean with a serious look. "That you want me to come home."

"Sam," Dean sighs. He steps away and starts shoving things into his bag, hair still stuck up sideways. "I didn't choose truth. And besides, why would I ask you that? It's your life, man. If I've learned one thing since you—" he stops, and clears his throat before continuing, "In the past year, I mean. If there's anything I've learned, it's that."

"You gonna take the dare or what?" says Sam. He knows Dean will. Dean has his honor, after all, and the very idea of ducking a dare between them is sacrilege.

"Am I going to—" Dean scoffs. "Of course I am."

"Good," Sam says fiercely, and Dean finishes packing in silence. For now, Sam knows, there's nothing more to say.

After a minute or so, the couch looks just like it had before he slept on it, before they had sex. After Dean hoists his bag up on one shoulder and looks Sam over, one last look for the road, and says, "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Dean smiles. "I dare you to pick up."

As Dean passes on his way to the door, Sam wants to reach out, do something to wind the thread between them taut, to push into Dean's grooves until they're the same person, a two headed monster. But all he gets is Dean's hand to his heart, once, like a promise.

"See you around, Sammy," Dean says, and then lets himself out.

 

 

 

 

Sam will not hear from his brother for two years. But later that day, standing in his kitchen alone and with a final envelope on the table, the postman just gone, he'll feel hopeful. He'll think of his brother speeding out across the wide country, half empty soda bottles kicking around the footwell and wheat waving as far as the eye can see. There and then gone. 


End file.
